Tuesday's Child
by NoChaser
Summary: Canon through S1-E2. AU after. Justin is outed at his school when Brian drops him off in the graffiti damaged Jeep, with disastrous consequences. A twist on the bashing, with Hobbs in a coma and Justin in prison for assault. Every Tuesday Brian visits Justin and a relationship grows. Brian and Daphne develop a close, true friendship. A story of forgiveness, redemption and truth.
1. 1 Graffiti

Chapter 1: Graffiti

_Monday's child is fair of face,_

_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_

_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_

_Thursday's child has far to go,_

_Friday's child is loving and giving,_

_Saturday's child works hard for his living._

_And the child that is born on the Sabbath day_

_Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay._

**TUESDAY'S CHILD**

_**Tuesday, March 5, 2002**_

"Brian."

"Hey, Daphne." He looked over at the pretty young woman, hair tied back loosely in a thick ponytail. A few strands had escaped and played around her light chocolate skin, the red-brown highlighted with tinges of gold from the late morning sun. He wished he knew what she looked like without that constant sorrow etched around her deep brown eyes. But it was part of her now, the same as it was with him. And every Tuesday the sorrow settled in a bit thicker, filling them up, shoving away every other possible emotions.

There was just so little room left over. Hadn't been for almost a year, now.

"How's he doing?"

It was always the same. Same conversation. Same question – same answer.

"The same."

"Yeah," Brian said as he crushed the butt of a cigarette into the concrete with the heel of his boot. It was the last one he would have for awhile. "I figured."

He rubbed his face with his hands, settling the heels into the hollow of his eyes, and leaned back against his Jeep for a minute. He always had to gather himself before he could walk across _this_ particular parking lot. Before he could walk through _that_ particular gate.

Before he could see _him_.

"How'd the chem test go this week?" Safe. Small talk was safe. Nothing else seemed to be.

Not on Tuesdays.

"_Hey, Justin… wanna suck me off?"_

The memory jarred Brian and he turned to look at the Jeep, surprised when he didn't see the bright pink '_FAGGOT'_ spray painted on the side. That fucking word started it all.

That one fucking word.

"You okay, Brian?" He could hear genuine concern in the soft voice. They'd learned a lot about each other over the last several months. She could read him now. His moods. His body language. He felt so fucking exposed.

He reached and pulled the young woman into a tight embrace, lightly kissing the top of her head. "I will be, Daph." he replied. "But it's still Tuesday."

She nodded against his chest, pulling him just a tiny bit tighter to her.

When had she stopped hating this man? When had all the anger she had poured out on him magically turned into this comfort – this focused friendship? The man who was holding her now – the man she was holding – bore no resemblance to the vile being she had built up in her mind a year and a half ago. This man cared. About her. About Justin.

"I have to go, Daph. It's my turn," he whispered to her, neither one of them really wanting to let go of the embrace. As he pulled away, he brushed a lock of her hair behind one ear. "Call me later?"

"Yeah. After I get home tonight. Remind him I love him, okay?"

"I will, but he already knows." He let his arms drop from around her small shoulders, turned away and began the long walk across the broken concrete of the parking lot, toward the guarded gate leading into the Mercer Correctional Facility.

_TCTCTCTC_

**Eighteen months earlier** –

"_Justin. I've had you. What happened last night…was for fun. You wanted me, and I wanted you. That's all it was."_

"_A fuck?"_

"_Well, what'd you think it was? ... Listen, I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking. It's honest. It's efficient. You get in and out with a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of bullshit. Love is something straight people tell themselves they're in so they can get laid. They end up hurting each other because it was all based on lies to begin with. If that's what you want, then go and find yourself a pretty little girl and get married."_

"_That's not what I want. I want you!"_

"_You can't have me. I'm to ol… You're too young for me. You're 17. I'm 28."_

"_29."_

"_Alright… 29. All the more reason… Now, go do your homework."_

Brian watched the young man's face crumple as he slid behind the wheel of the car. He stood and watched for a few extra moments, as the tail lights faded into the shadows of Fuller Avenue, a weight settling over him. Something – regret? Shit, no. He didn't do that shit. Waste of time. You do what you do and you move on, good, bad or otherwise.

He'd been honest with the boy, hadn't led him on, hadn't promised him anything other than a great fuck. The same great fuck he promised old George waiting upstairs.

But… he knew George wouldn't stay the night, knew he wouldn't fuck George in the shower. Wouldn't fuck George again and again all night long.

George wouldn't be with him when he saw his son for the first time, wouldn't fucking help _name_ his son.

Christ…

Brian sat down halfway up the first flight of stairs, his arms hanging off his knees, his head tilted against the banister. Shit! He thought back over the night before, and realized it was _no fucking wonder_ the boy thought it was more than a fuck. It was – to Justin. And Justin _was_ just a kid. A kid without the emotional experience to put that night into any kind of perspective… And he had just blown him off… cruelly.

"Fuck!"

A lean, leather clad body sat down next to him, pulling him out of his self-pity.

"You catch the kid?"

"Yeah," Brian sighed and rested his head against the banister once more. "I… told him the truth."

George laughed lightly. "Yours or his?"

"Fuck you, Father Goodfuck!"

"Sadly, not tonight, Kinney. Look me up some other night. You know where I'll be. And it's Attorney Goodfuck to you."

"Now wouldn't my mother have just been _so_ proud? An attorney…" Brian snarked at the man. He felt shitty enough right now. He didn't need this man piling it on _and_ leaving before he fucked him.

"You really can be an asshole, can't you, Kinney?" George stood up and walked toward the door of the building. He slowed his steps as he reached for the handle. "If you didn't want to deal with the drama of a kid that young, you probably shouldn't have fucked him," he shot out as he let the door shut behind him.

Brian sat staring at the closed door, knowing that Attorney Goodfuck was completely right. Fucker.

_TCTCTCTC_

He laid his head back on the headrest of the rental car and silently cursed every woman he'd ever known. Somehow they had to have infected him with some little known estrogen transfer syndrome. He certainly wasn't sitting out here in front of St. James waiting to catch sight of the kid because he had an overabundance of testosterone raging through his system.

He felt ridiculous. He'd dreamed about the boy over and over after he'd blown him off last night. He refused to think he actually regretted his actions. Just wanted to make sure the kid was okay.

The third time he'd jerked awake…

"_When can I see you again?"_

"_You can see me right now."_

"_I mean later. Tonight."_

"_Who knows where I'll be later tonight."_

"_Please."_

"_I'll see you in your dreams."_

- and the irony of _those_ particular words, of _that_ particular memory haunting him in his sleep wasn't lost on him - Brian realized he didn't even know the boy's last name. It should have been a shock that he even knew his _first_ name.

No names.

No repeats.

No overnights.

No taking you to see my newborn son before I fuck you.

Yeah, breaking all of those rules should have been what bothered him. _Not_ that he didn't know the ki… Justin's… last name.

So here he sat, watching random teenagers pouring out of the door of some suburban high school, holding his breath in hopes of seeing that shock of white-blond hair, those blue eyes, that flawlessly pale skin…

Shit!

As he shook his head to expel the image of a naked and flushed boy in his bed, he saw the white-blond flash he had been waiting for. And he saw the group of other boys shoving and beating him inside a gated area of the schoolyard, heard the vile epithets being hurled at him. _Faggot_. _Cocksucker_.

"Justin!" he yelled as he got out of the car and ran toward the group. He saw a large boy slam Justin to the ground, hands around that sensitive throat – "JUSTIN!" And then there was a scream and a flood of red and, oh fucking god … deadly quiet.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Tuesday, March 5, 2002**_

"Brian Kinney. For Inmate Justin Taylor."

He knew the routine well. He'd been practicing it almost every Tuesday for the last ten months. He'd left his wallet, his belt, his phone and every other forbidden object in the locker at the front of the room, the plastic locker key in his pocket. He'd passed through the metal detector. He'd been sight searched and hand searched. His ID had been matched with the registered list of visitors. He'd been given the requisite refresher speech on acceptable behavior. Hug going in, hug going out. No PDAs. Hands in plain sight at all times. Hand holding okay for short periods of time. No loud voices, no shouting. Sit where we tell you to sit. You have at least one hour, no more than three hours, but if we need to cut it short, all bets are off.

Yeah, he knew the routine. He could recite it in his fucking sleep.

He stepped through the wire cage door into the common room filled with round plastic tables and plastic bucket chairs, making his way to their assigned seating area. There was a television playing quietly and a group of children playing loudly in the background. The crash of a soda can falling through a vending machine. The sobs of distraught wives-daughters-mothers seeing their husbands-fathers-sons for their weekly visit. A small kiss here, a loud laugh there. Pandemonium.

The 8th level of Dante's Inferno.

Tuesday.

Justin.

Brian couldn't help the smile that erupted as he saw him walk across the floor of the common room. Brown on brown prison uniform, his hair cut back a bit more than it was last week. But, god, he was still so beautiful. Even in this hell he was a beautiful man.

"Hey, Jus," Brian spoke quietly as he gave a quick hug, burying his face in the soft hair for a mere moment. _No PDAs_, he reminded himself. But he closed his eyes and imagined a different embrace as he felt Justin return his hug.

"Hey. Glad you're on time," Justin responded. "You see Daph when you got here?"

"Yeah, we caught up with each other in the parking lot. She wants me to remind you that she loves you." Brian's face flashed a pained expression, as if the words were difficult to say. Justin laughed at the man's discomfort.

"Oh, yeah. You know she just does that so you'll have to say the word. She knows how much you hate it." Justin sat in one of the steel gray plastic chairs, placing his hands on top of the table, palms down. Brian did the same, inching his fingers forward so the tips _almost_ touched. Justin looked down at the hands – so different in shape and size and color. He wanted so desperately to just place his skin on top of Brian's, to dare to take that chance. But he didn't. Couldn't. Not here.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

"Me, too, Jus." Brian cleared his throat quickly. "You look good."

"Yeah, well, they let me model the Armani Correction's Collection today," the young man laughed. He didn't get to do much of that in here, and he loved Brian all the more for making him want to. "Oh, and this…" Keeping his palms firmly against the table top, Justin spread the fingers on his left hand wide to show a roughly inked tattoo on the inside of his middle finger. It simply said '_FREE_'.

"Christ, Jus… be careful with that stuff. You'll end up losing your damned hand!" Brian hissed, but a single elegant finger traced the still slightly red and swollen skin as the word seemed to burn itself into Brian's own hand.

Free.

Christ.

"You will be, Justin. You will be soon."

"Stop… Brian, stop." The sharply clipped words brought Brian's eyes up to Justin's questioningly. "I know where your head's going. We've been there, Bri. And we don't fucking need to ruin this visit with guilt and blame… Just… stop."

He knew he wouldn't stop. The guilt and blame was as much a part of Brian as the sorrow. If he hadn't been such a motherfucking asshole, if he hadn't wanted to prove some fucking point to himself – and if he was honest with himself, prove something to Mikey – if he hadn't dropped Justin off at school in that fucked up graffiti painted Jeep…

But he wouldn't ruin this visit. Tuesday. It was all they had right now. He cleared his throat again and pulled back his hand, even as he desperately wanted to curl it around Justin's… just _touch_ him. Let him know what he couldn't say here, in this place.

_I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'll always be here. I love you._

"Okay," he whispered and raised his eyes to briefly meet those now perpetually guarded blue ones. He hated that more than anything. The total loss of Justin's innocence. Stolen away with a single announcement from a fucking court bailiff. _We, the jury, find the defendant guilty on the charge of aggravated assault_.

"Okay."

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Eighteen months earlier… **_

"I fucking know what I saw, George! This is fucking bullshit!" Brian threw the documents across the large oak desk, back to his former almost-fuck. He repeated, "This is fucking bullshit!"

"That may be, Brian, but you are the only one who saw it that way, apparently." George Pappas retrieved the documents and, stacking them one by one, carefully placed them back into the file lying open on his desk.

"You mean I'm the only one who isn't telling it through some goddamned fucking homophobic filter! They were beating the shit out of the boy, George! Hobbs was choking him, strangling him, for chrissake! All they had to do was look at his fucking throat!" Brian squeezed his eyes shut against the frustrated tears pooling there. They were fucking liars! Every last goddamned one of them!

"And you're another fag, Brian. While they are… good Christian boys and girls. You and I both know the score. If we had even one more witness, one more person who could verify that they attacked him first… As it is, their story makes sense _and_ they have corroboration. Justin snapped and jumped Hobbs, hit him in the head with the rock, and the others then attacked Justin to save their friend. Explains Hobbs injuries and Justin's and… well… unfortunately it rings true."

"And all Justin has is the truth and the word of another godless fag. Christ!"

George looked at the pained man across the desk from him. He was aware of the odds here. More than aware. They both were.

"It's not going to be quick, easy or cheap, Brian. I wish I could tell you that truth is all you need and money would not be a factor here, but Justin's parents are refusing to pay for his legal fees. Hell, they won't even post his bail. That's going to leave him with an overworked and under involved public defender. I represented him at the initial arraignment, but…"

"Fuck the money, George. Whatever it costs, I'll cover it. This is _my_ fucking fault… _I_ outed him…"

"Whoa there, Kinney. You didn't cause those shits to attack Justin. He wouldn't have stayed in the closet much longer. You know that and you know that something would have happened eventually…" Brian stood up, shaking his head at the attorney's words. He knew where the fault was, where the blame squarely belonged. And he knew without a doubt that this was the biggest regret he would ever have in his life. Yeah, he did regrets – fuck his own motto. His own stupidity and fuck everyone attitude was ruining a beautiful boy's life.

_Hey, Justin… wanna suck me off?_

Brian bowed his head and grimaced at the memory of the unknown boy holding his crotch and loudly baiting Justin, of Justin slinking down in the backseat of the offensive Jeep.

"But I didn't give him a goddamned choice, now, did I? Coming out of the closet is one thing. Being shoved out…" Brian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card, laying it directly on top of the file on the desk. "It's my dime, Pappas. Do what you have to do. Right now, I have to go post some bail. He's been there too long."

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Tuesday, March 5, 2002**_

It was hard not to notice the guards lining the paint chipped, discolored walls of the common room. Their eyes looked dead, but Brian knew differently. They were heat seeking missiles, waiting to hone in on some infraction or another. Justin watched as the man surveyed the room, taking in his weekly dose of Justin's everyday experience.

"They're doing their job, Bri. Just stick to the rules, don't piss 'em off and they'll leave us alone." The matter-of-factness of the statement, said without any animosity or affect, irritated Brian.

"How the hell can you be so blasé about them, Jus? About this?" He motioned around the room slightly with his hand. Only a small wave. _Nothing to attract attention_, Kinney.

"And just what would you have me feel, Brian?" Justin pulled his hands back from the center of the table and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. This was his existence now. One he had no choice but to accept. He kept his voice low as he continued. "Perpetual anger? Pissed off every second of every fucking day? What? This _is_ my fucking life, Brian, and it will be for quite some time." He sighed as he closed his eyes at his painful reality. He _was_ angry. He _was_ pissed off. But what the fuck good would wearing that on his sleeve do? None. Absofuckinglutely none. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly. Just like the counselor showed him.

When he'd first arrived at Mercer, he'd been a fucking mess of panic attacks and crying jags. He learned pretty damned fast that pussies don't last long, even in minimum security lockup. So he had pulled it in and bucked up. There just weren't enough guards to keep the hard asses at bay all the time, and sometimes the guards just didn't give a shit anyway. He'd managed – so far – to avoid the worst of the treatment by the few gangs who tried to run the place, but he'd suffered his share of black eyes and swollen lips. A few bruised ribs here and there. But he'd survived okay so far. So far.

He had his own cell. Eight by eight with a toilet and a sink so at least he didn't have to shit in front of an audience. He had learned to be quiet and creative enough to jack himself off at night without the guards catching him. But the showers… that was the worst part of the day. Totally fucking exposed. He was an eighteen year old gay man with no outlet for his sexual urges. It was hard to hide his reaction to a room full of naked, wet men. But he had fucking learned. Fast.

Yeah, this _was_ his life and damn Brian for thinking he should feel or act or be a certain way because of it!

"You don't have a fucking clue what it's like in here, Brian. Not a damned fucking clue. And don't ever assume what I feel from what I show. You, of all people, should understand that." Brian had revealed himself, little by little over the last ten months. He'd barely known the man before he landed in Mercer. One night of fucking and a few meetings before the trial didn't make for an intimate knowledge. But he'd learned him. Bit by bit, layer by layer. And he knew Brian had been locked in his own kind of prison his entire life.

The difference was that Brian could choose to unlock _his_ prison doors and had chosen not to. Justin would give anything to have that choice.

He also knew that, even when he walked out of Mercer, it would follow him, locking him into a different cell everyday for the rest of his life. An unforgiving society would make sure of that. People like his parents would make sure of that.

He would always be a felon. A dangerous risk.

Mercer was his present.

It was also his fucking future.


	2. 2 There's no going home

Chapter 2: There's no going home

_**Tuesday, March 5, 2002**_

Brian sat with his back pressed hard up against a support beam in the loft, the almost empty Beam bottle swinging from his hand between drawn up knees. Chuckling to himself, lightheaded from the liquor, he suddenly found it quite funny that the almost empty bottle felt so much heavier than it had when he was sober. Curious that. He thought about opening his eyes – and then thought better of it. He knew what he'd see. Fuck knows he'd seen it often enough, he didn't need a reminder. Not with the spin his head was doing right now.

Not tonight.

He heard the key in the lock, heard the four high-pitch beeps disarming the alarm, and grinned widely to the darkened room, knowing exactly what his intruder was going to say. Ahh, routine.

"Jesus, Brian. You _could_ answer your phone. And turn on a light in here!"

"Love you, too, honey." Six months ago it would have been Mikey making sure he was okay, joking with him. But Mikey was gone. Off being happy with the good doctor, living in some treehouse. Just as well, Brian thought, he wouldn't be so happy with me these days.

Daphne looked around the room at the disaster that was the loft. She uprighted one of the overturned chairs, cringing at the thought of the expensive leather getting scratched during one of Brian's Tuesday Night Tirades. "Why do we do this every week?" she asked with a sigh, sitting down beside him on the hardwood, her head against his shoulder.

"Routine? Habit? Karmic repetition?" He reached out one arm and pulled the girl tightly to him, kissing the top of her head, breathing in a slightly peppermint aroma. It suited her. She was – refreshing.

"We both know you're going to ask me to call. We both know you're not going to answer your phone. And we both know I'm going to come over anyway to find you've trashed the place again. Why don't we conserve a little energy and just skip the first two steps in that process? Hmmm?"

"Now where's the mystery in that?"

"Where's the mystery in the way we do it now?"

Brian, looked at her with hooded eyes, gave her a grunt and nodded slowly. "I'd call you a twat, but since you actually do possess one, the insult would feel wasted." God, he was glad they had finally found each other, had been able to have this connection to the man they both cared so much for.

Daphne snorted. "I call you a dick and, quite happily for you, you possess one of those. And believe me I don't feel a thing is wasted." She fought off most of the grin that threatened to break through. But just as quickly as that bit appeared, it settled into a hard line as her serious demeanor returned. "Speaking of insults, I ran into Jennifer Taylor today." She felt the immediate change in his body. The subtle tensing. Arm muscles that seemed to harden beneath her hand. "Brian…"

"Tell me," he demanded, his brain suddenly feeling much less affected by the alcohol. He'd had a few of his own encounters with mommie dearest and knew just what the Taylors were capable of. And what they weren't.

"She…they…" Shit! Brian was going to explode. She knew it… but they had _promised_ each other. Total honesty. Never hold anything back. No lies, no omissions. Those had cost everyone enough.

"Daph. Just fucking _tell_ me." He could feel the anger prickling at him already.

The young woman drew in a deep breath, holding it for a moment as she snuggled into the man holding her. She let it out slowly. "The Taylors are going to speak on behalf of Chris Hobbs at Justin's parole hearing in May."

"Motherfuckers!" Brian pulled violently away from Daphne, crashing the Beam bottle against the far wall of the loft. "He's their fucking son!"

"He is _NOT_ their son!" Daphne shouted out a denial. "They threw away any right—_any right_ to that the day… that day…" Hurt and anger poured down her pretty face as she fell apart. "Christ, Brian… how could they… _Why_? Why hurt him again like this? Oh, god, if his own parents speak against him…"

Brian pulled the sobbing, broken girl onto his lap, rocking her as he sometimes would his son. "Shhh. Shhh, baby. I know. I know." Christ! He could fucking _kill_ those parasites for the pain they had caused. To Justin, to Daphne. They had done all they could to take _everything_ from them – their innocence, their futures, their fucking kid… And there was not a goddamned thing he could do but hold on a little tighter, to try to comfort this girl who had lost almost as much as Justin. Almost as much.

Maybe more.

_TCTCTCTC_

Justin lay on the small, hard bunk connected to the wall of his cell. Lights out had been hours ago and he was still laying there willing sleep to take him. Their visits always did this to him. This was the only day of the week that reflected anything of him, anything unique, and he hated to give the day up. As much as he knew that Mercer was his life right now, on Tuesday nights everything else simply felt like filler. Like a waiting game he was playing until his real life showed up again in a week. Like hide and seek.

He breathed just for Tuesday.

Other than George Pappas' occasional visits, Daph and Brian were the only ones he saw from the outside. Not one time in the ten months he had been here had Jennifer or Craig visited him. They hadn't even answered the few letters Justin had sent. He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself he didn't miss them. Didn't miss them on Christmas. Or his nineteenth birthday. And he _didn't_ miss who they were now. He missed who he always thought they were – who they were before Hobbs, before they knew he was gay, before Bryn. _Before they royally fucked us over._

His thumb ran over the tattoo healing on his middle finger – he felt the still raw, raised skin that signified the word. And he knew no matter what Jennifer and Craig Taylor did to him, no matter what lies Hobbs and Mackey and Turner told against him, no matter what a jury decided about him, he knew the truth. And he had Daphne and Brian, even Bryn. Because of them he would fucking _always_ be free.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Eighteen months earlier…**_

"Oh, my god, Justin! Justin!" Daphne screamed across the lobby of the jail. They hadn't been able to talk with each other since before the attack at St. James four days ago. Justin had been taken into custody right there on school grounds in front of half of the student body as Chris Hobbs was being driven away in an ambulance, unconscious and bleeding. At the time Justin had slipped into a state of semi-shock, barely able to respond to the officers' questions, making little protest when he was handcuffed and led to back seat of the police cruiser. He thought he heard a vaguely familiar voice yelling his name, but he wasn't sure. Everything was like a dream – a nightmare.

He did remember coughing, his throat being sore and his windpipe feeling swollen. He did remember the crushing headache and a blur of faces and yelling and shoving. Everything swimming together. He did remember being fingerprinted and photographed and calling his mother.

_I'll take care of it honey. I'm sure it's some mistake. Don't worry. _

So Justin had waited. For his mother. His father. Anyone. But there was no one. When he tried to sleep that first night in holding, he huddled in the corner of a broken wall cot, a thin blanket wrapped tightly around him like a protective shell, scared shitless of the other man in the holding cell with him.

And he waited.

On the second day he was led, in handcuffs chained to a leather belt around his small waist, through the back hallways of the judicial center to the courtroom. At every turn, every doorway, he craned his neck hoping to see his parents. He never saw them. As his name was called, he stood in those handcuffs before a lectern in the center of the too bright courtroom and listened as someone spoke words he didn't hear. Beside him was a man – he thought he must be a lawyer – who Justin felt he should remember from somewhere, but didn't. The man placed his hand at the small of Justin's back – _Not guilty your Honor_, _no prior record your Honor, request a reasonable bail your Honor_ – and led Justin back toward the officers who had led him through the back hallways. And still he waited for his parents.

They never came.

But they must have paid the bail because Daphne was dancing around him, hugging him tightly, and he knew he should be happy, but he wasn't.

"Where are mom and dad? Are they waiting in the car?" He looked expectantly at his friend and saw the apprehension on her face. "Daph? Where are my mom and dad?"

"Justin… they aren't here." She spoke quietly and calmly as if he was a child. Maybe he was. A child would be this scared, this confused.

"Of course they are. They paid the bail, Daph. Mom told me she would handle it, it was all a mistake of some kind." His eyes searched the room, scanning each and every face they came across. Of course they were here. He was seventeen. They were his parents.

"Your mom called me. Someone called her when you were being released. She told me to come pick you up." Still calm and quiet. Still the apprehension on her face.

"Oh… they're waiting for me at home. Of course, mom couldn't leave Molly." A truth nagged at him. He thrust it aside, hanging on to his hope. It was all he had right now.

"Justin." Her heart was full of pain for her friend and fury at his parents. She knew her next words would crush him. "They said you can't come home."

"Wha…? Can't go home?" The stunned look of disbelief on his face slowly turned to astonished fear. "I have no place to go, Daph," he whispered as he stood in the center of the jail lobby in the dirty school uniform that had been returned to him, a backpack full of books slowly sliding from his now limp arm. "I have no fucking place to go!"

Tears streaked down the young girls' face as she touched Justin's lightly. "You are coming home with me, Jus."

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Friday, March 8, 2002**_

"Well, as I live and breathe… Look who's decided to grace us with his magnificence this evening." Emmett Honeycutt leaned back against the bar and smiled a genuine greeting to the beautiful man making his way toward them. The whole of Liberty Avenue had been somewhat bewildered by the sudden scarcity of Brian Kinney at Babylon over the last few months. Oh, he had been there, off and on. But more off than on. Most of the gang had arrived at the simple conclusion that the absence of Brian's number one sidekick was the reason for the man's infrequent jaunts to his self-proclaimed playground. Emmett tended to agree with them as far as they went – he just felt there was something else working to keep the stud from being quite so studly of late.

"Honeycutt, Theodore," Brian nodded his greeting as he approached the bar before turning to the bartender. "Beam, double, Scott. Thanks." No sooner had the glass hit the bar top than Brian had it tossed back, a slight grimace on his face as he felt the beloved, familiar burn.

"So, now that you have _that_ out of the way, may I ask what a nice boy like you is doing in a nasty ol' place like this?"

"Now, Honeycutt, there hasn't been a nice boy in this place for more than six months."

"Speaking of Michael," Emmett began, "...have you talked to him lately? When are he and the illustrious doctor coming back for a visit?"

"Do I look like his warden, Emmett?" Brian winced at the choice words even as he spoke them. "However, I think he said he was coming back for Vic's birthday."

Emmett fairly jumped up and down, clapping his hands in joy, every bit the queen. "Oooo… we'll have a party! When's Vic's birthday?"

"The 26th, I think." Brian was only half hearing Emmett, his attention suddenly drawn to a small blond man dancing, glitter falling on his half naked body. His heart lurched… so much like…

"Not quite three weeks. We can do that! And you, my lovely lonely man, are going to assist me." He reached out and grabbed Brian's hand, guiding him toward the pulsing bodies in the middle of the room. "Now, let's dance, handsome."

Brian let himself be led by the thrumming beat of the music, his body vibrating, his hips gyrating as he kept half an eye on the young blond beside them. Emmett noticed Brian's distraction and wondered at the attraction there. Not Brian's usual type. Too young, too blond, too small. But there was something in Brian's face as he looked at the oblivious boy. A kind of… tender sadness. This wasn't about Michael. Not at all.

"So, I thought we could have Vic's party at your loft. Lots of open space and no chance for Vic or Michael to find out beforehand. And I promise that _I_ will do all the clean up. I'll make it spic and span. That okay with you?" Emmett had to yell to be heard above the music and get through Brian's fascination with the young blond dancer.

"What are you going on about, Honeycutt?"

"Vic's party. The 26th. We could have it that Tuesday night at your loft."

"No!" Brian stopped dancing and looked intensely at his friend. "I mean, not Tuesday. Some other night…"

"But… we can't have Vic's birthday party on a day that isn't his birthday, Brian. That _is_ the whole point." Emmett had pulled Brian away from the loud music. In the relative quiet he didn't have to yell to make his point.

"Not happening on Tuesday, Emmett. I won't be there. You'll have to do it without me." Brian couldn't – wouldn't – give up his Tuesday with Justin. He depended on that day. His life revolved around that day… It was… theirs. He'd never told any of the gang about Justin, about visiting him every week. Of course, they knew he had testified at a trial as a witness to the beating. When the sensational local story hit the news, Michael figured out that he was the boy they had dropped off. They also knew that he was totally unavailable for anything, anything at all, on Tuesdays. They had just never connected the dots. And he intended to keep it that way. It wasn't their business.

"But… Now, Brian, we all know that you do _something_ every Tuesday. Teach a class in blow job technique, take dancing lessons… for chrissake I don't care if it's underwater basket weaving. You can give it up for one night! For Vic. For Michael!"

"No, Honeycutt. Just… no." Brian stared at his friend, a deep, pleading gaze. "Listen, I've got to go. Later."

As Brian walked out the door of his playground less than half an hour after arriving – no trips to the backroom, no frenzied and fevered dancing with the beautiful boys – Emmett wondered aloud. "Just what is it that has you so tied up in knots, Mr. Kinney? What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?"


	3. 3 A fine distinction between angels

CHAPTER 3: A fine distinction between demons and angels

_**Tuesday, March 12, 2002**_

"So, tell me about life. What's happening out there?" Justin sat as he usually did, with his fingertips almost touching Brian's, leaning a bit back and to the side in the plastic chair, beatific smile in place. He was actually relaxed, and Brian was awed by the pure strength and tenacity of him. There was never a moment these days when the man was more than a heartbeat from Brian's thoughts, and he couldn't even begin to know exactly when that happened. It just had. He mentally ran through all the hundreds – thousands – of men he had known in his life, intimately more often than not, and there was not one who made him feel _this_. Friends, fucks, foes. None of them. This was… joy. Peace. Ecstacy. Calm. This was _all_ of it. And for the life of him he couldn't reason how someone who was here, confined inside the walls of a prison, could make him feel that. Could make it cut through the anger and frustration, through the guilt. But he did it.

"No. Let's talk about you," Brian moved his hand, just a bit, to brush their fingers together. "Are you drawing this week?"

"A bit, when I can get the supplies. That isn't high on their requisition priority list, you know. I think it's down there somewhere around… tampons." Brian laughed as Justin's face screwed up in disgust at his own comparison.

"God, kid, don't tell me you're thinking about vaginas again?" The brief pained look that crossed Justin's face made Brian regret the words immediately.

"No, that didn't exactly work out so well the last time."

"Hey, Jus…I didn't mean to…" Justin's raised hand stopped Brian's apology. Shit. How could he have gone there?

"It's really okay, Bri. We're dealing with it. Daph and I do actually talk about it." He put on a poignant little smile. "You know, she'll be a year old in a couple of months. I just hope she's doing okay."

"Christ." One finger grazed the top of one of Justin's. "She should be with Daphne," he whispered.

"No, she shouldn't, Brian. She's right where she should be," Justin responded quietly. He shifted his body closer to the table, to Brian – needing whatever connection he could have. "The way it happened… well, that sucked shit, but… A single mom raising a premature baby with health issues? A dad in prison? No, she made the right choice. Just… sometimes the right choices are the most painful ones."

There was absolutely nothing Brian could think of to say to that. Yeah, life sucked shit sometimes. More than once.

Justin's face brightened as his signature smile returned. "You do know Daph named her after you? She wanted you to be her godfather." Brian actually blushed a bit as Justin continued. "Bryn. It was the closest she could come without actually using your name. And I think she just didn't want that 'anna' thing hanging off the end."

"Tell me. What could possibly possess someone to name their child after me? Christ…" He had guessed it. And he was so honored by it he could burst… but he couldn't admit that. Not even to Justin. It hurt too much. He'd lost a namesake and goddaughter.

"You don't do humble very well, you shit," Justin huffed out, noticing Brian's unease, changing the subject slightly. "You did a fuck ton of stuff for us. You mortgaged your goddamned home for us, Brian!"

"Keep your voice down, Jus!" He noticed one of the guards eyeing them suspiciously. Heat seeking missile fucker. "It's only money."

"You paid my bail."

"I got most of that back."

"Most of it," Justin snorted. "And you paid George. And you helped Daph with her medical bills. And…"

"Alright, alright. Jesus… It still doesn't matter. It's still just money, Justin." He didn't need a rundown of the money he'd spent. He knew the amount to the penny. "And I'd do it again, if necessary. You know that."

There was no use, the young man knew, in pursuing it. Brian didn't want to accept the gratitude Justin felt. He understood. He also understood that he would never, in any amount of time, be able to repay the unexpected generosity of this man, to thank him for all he'd done for him. For Daphne. For Bryn. And he wished he could show him, just once, how he felt about him. _Thank you. I love you. I need you._

Really show him.

As Justin's thoughts wandered to just how he wanted to show Brian all he felt, he unconsciously adjusted himself in the seat. He could feel the heat rush to his face, and he lowered his eyes when he realized what he had done – fuck! – and that it hadn't been lost on the man responsible for the situation. They sat silently for a few moments, Justin collecting himself and Brian wondering how his heart could fly and break at the same time. When Justin finally looked up, neither man missed the extra brightness in the pair of eyes they stared into. Neither man could think beyond this moment. And neither man denied what they both knew.

"I'd give every dime I have, everything I own or ever will have, right this fucking second… to be able to walk you out that door."

Justin heard every word that Brian didn't say.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Sixteen months earlier:**_

George Pappas and Daphne watched as the young man paced the room, hands running through his hair, alternating flashes of fear and anger and panic dancing across his face. One moment gazing sightlessly out the window, the next his face pressed against the cool wood of the door.

"They're actually going to try me as an adult?" A slight sheen of sweat glistening on his face highlighted the near fevered panic that had finally settled in his eyes.

"Yeah. Their option. They waited to watch Hobbs' progression and make sure they had sufficient reason. He's out of the coma, but he has serious, probably permanent injuries, Justin. They are going to prosecute as fully as they can, based upon the injuries, the statements of witnesses, and the statements of students who saw the escalation of emotions between you and Hobbs in the days before the attack." George knew the truth wouldn't count for anything in the face of the evidence the DA had in his possession. He hadn't been able to find a single person, other than Brian Kinney, who had any recollection of the incident that was in Justin's favor.

"But they attacked Justin!"

"I know, Ms. Chanders. But what we know and what we can prove are entirely separate things. They have at least four solid witnesses, plus statements from other students regarding you and Hobbs yelling at and shoving each other in the halls that day and the day before. We have you – the accused – and Brian Kinney's statement…"

"Fuck Brian Kinney! He got Justin into this in the first place. Face of god, my ass!" Her hatred for the man who had hurt her friend had been escalating for weeks. And god, she wished she could _kill_ him for what he had caused Justin! Fucking him, turning him away like a dog, and now…this. Justin had been so damned happy that first day after meeting Brian, but then he had this whole amazing life spread out ahead of him. School, his art, just living! And then… Fuck Kinney!

"Brian is _all_ Justin has right now, Ms. Chanders. His statement…"

"Isn't going to be worth shit when he gets up there and admits to fucking me! If it wasn't for him…"

"If it wasn't for him you'd still be in jail, Justin!" Christ! Brian didn't want the kid to know that. Not unless it was necessary. Well, there it was. The man was a grade-A asshole, but he was doing every damned thing he could for the boy, everything. He ran his hands over his shaved head, frustrated with his client's attitude. Unfortunately he could understand it as well. Fac ing this would be hard enough for a seasoned adult, but dealing with the potential of prison when you are seventeen? Shit.

"What do you mean? I'd still be in jail." The words were quiet, clipped. Serious.

"Brian Kinney posted your bail when your parents refused to do so." George was well aware that Justin clung desperately to the false belief that his parents paid his bail, was paying for his legal fees. That they still cared for him in some way. Time to disavow him of those beliefs. If the boy was going to be tried as an adult, he damned well better start thinking like one.

"My parents…"

"Refused to post your bail, Justin. When Brian heard about that…"

"And _your_ fees?"

"Brian."

Justin slumped back against the door, hoping the support would keep his knees from completely giving out. Bile churned around the knots growing bigger in his stomach, as the last illusions he held of his parents' loving him faded. Daphne watched the panic start to take over her friend – his normally pale skin becoming even paler, his breathing shallow.

"Justin?"

"I've gotta go…" he hissed out between clenched teeth as he jerked the door opened and ran from the attorney's office. He was sitting in the driver's seat of Daphne's small car, his hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead when she found him minutes later.

"Give me the keys."

"You can't drive like this, Jus."

"Give me the fucking keys!" She had never been afraid of her friend. Ever. Right now she was terrified of, for him. She laid the keys in his upturned palm and snapped on her seat belt.

When the car pulled over next to an old warehouse section of town, one she didn't know at all, she watched as Justin slowly, with deliberation in every move, got out of the car and walked up the steps to one of the old buildings. She followed him, heard a growled "Let me the fuck in" and then the click of the door lock as it opened. Her eyes took in the chipped paint, the scuffed and worn stair runner and she wondered what in the hell her friend thought he was doing. She tried to stop him with a hand on his arm. He shook it off without even looking at her. When they reached the top floor she stopped, stunned. There, in an open doorway, waiting… was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, motioning them inside one of the most beautiful apartments she had ever seen. She knew. Brian Kinney.

"George called you." A statement.

"Yeah, he figured you would either come here or to your parents'" She watched a shadow of guilt cross the man's perfect features before they settled into a mask of complete indifference. "So. You know."

"Just who the _FUCK_ do you think you are, _Mr_. Kinney?" Justin circled the man as he lashed out.

"I think I'm the one who got you out of that fucking jail your loving parents left you to rot in, _Mr_. Taylor." He couldn't help it. He just couldn't fucking help letting his defense take over. The little shit! He fucking bailed him out!

Justin screamed and with every ounce of frustrated anger he possessed, shoved Brian against the wall, staring wildly at him. "You get a kick out of fucking virgins, then fucking with – _fucking up_ – the rest of their fucking lives, huh, Brian? Fucking up _my_ life? You know they are trying me as an adult?" Tears flowed faster with each word Justin hissed out. "I'm probably going to _prison_, Brian! Because of _you_ and your fucked up life, and your fucking friend, and your fucking _Jeep_, and I… my life's a fucking mess…"

Brian had taken it all stoically. He took it as the boy screamed and shoved and ranted, as he cried out his frustration and anger at him. He took it. And somewhere inside he knew he deserved every bit of it, and more. As Justin wore himself out railing at Brian, something shifted and the mask he wore just wouldn't stay in place. He pushed the heels of his hands deep into his eyes, hoping to stop what he could feel starting. But the tears fell anyway. When he saw Justin crumple to the ground, sobbing, all pretence of indifference fell away. He knew he was the cause of this young man's pain, of his fear. If he had just… what? Not fucked him? Not taken him to school? Been just a minute earlier the next day? What?

Daphne stood back as she watched her friend exorcise his demons on the belligerent man who had started this whole fucking mess, her own sobs mixing with the sound of Justin's. She wanted to cause this man the pain she knew Justin was suffering. This man who just fucking didn't care! She wanted to strip away everything _he_ loved, strip away _his_ future. She started toward Justin as she watched him fall to the floor. She needed to hold him and let him know she was there. But she stopped as she watched Brian's body slide down the wall, as his arms pulled Justin to his lap, as he rocked him back and forth.

"I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Daphne heard the tearful whispers and thought there must be a fine distinction between demons and angels.

She had to remind herself that she hated Brian Kinney.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Tuesday, March 12, 2002**_

Daphne put the loft key back in her purse and turned on a light, readying her normal greeting and expecting to find what she always did. As she turned around, ready to once again verbally smack her friend for not answering his phone, she stopped. Just a bit stunned. No overturned anything… no empty bottles littering the floor… no Brian. Shit!

"Brian?" The bathroom? Bedroom? Shit! Their routine for this night had been so static, so drastically unchanged for the last ten months that she was feeling more than just a little unease. As she made her way up the few steps toward the bedroom, bracing herself for… anything… she heard the loft door behind her.

"Hi, honey. I'm home."

"Where the fuck were you?" Her voice wavered between relief and really pissed off, and Brian had to smirk at the bothered young 'wife' standing with her hands on her hips in disapproval.

"I'm sorry, dearest. I just ran out to pick up a few things and got caught in some traffic. I hope you didn't hold dinner for me."

"Jesus, Brian! You really scared me." Now her voice was solidly pissed off.

"C'mere, Daphne." He held out his arms and hugged his young friend. "I'm fine. Didn't mean to worry you. I really didn't think I'd be gone this long, but…" Brian hesitated, not entirely sure how to tell her what he had been doing since leaving Mercer today.

"But…"

"But… I want to show you something." He reached down and took Daphne's small hand in his and walked toward his desk, guiding her to one of the chairs there. As he sat down next to her and turned on the computer, his heart started racing. _God, if this hurts her_… He reached into his jacket and pulled out the small camera, expertly opening it and removing the data card. Before placing the card into the computer, he turned to the young woman and took both of her hands in his and touched their foreheads together.

"Justin said something today…You've lost so much, Daphne. A great part of the blame goes to me."

"No, Brian…"

"Stop it. We both know it's true. I… I can't change it, though fuck knows I wish I could somehow. But… I wanted to give you both _something_. Please understand, Princess." Daphne pulled back just enough to see the plea in Brian's hazel eyes.

"Whatever it is, Brian, it's okay. I'll understand." She had learned so much about him, his fears, his vulnerability. There was not an unkind atom in his body. Possessive, protective, sometimes defensive. But not unkind.

He pulled in a long, slow breath and let it out as he pushed the card into the slot and brought up the files on his screen. As the first picture came up, he heard the sharp intake of breath next to him. Placing his arm protectively around the small, now shaking shoulders, he whispered, "I went to see the Waverly's today."

"Oh my god… Brian…" The beautiful smile that graced the beautiful face lit up the room. With tears and laughter – with pure joy – she gripped the hand of this amazing man, pulling it to her lips for a small kiss.

"Thank you. Thank you," she whispered over and over, wiping her eyes as the pictures of the small little girl with the light mocha skin and bright blue eyes played before her, a head full of bronze curls dancing in the last of the day's sun.

"She's small, Princess, but she's apparently healthy." Cupping his strong hand behind her head, he pulled Daphne to him, fighting his own emotions. "Thank you for her name, Daphne. And for her."

The two sat together for hours, watching the slide show over and over, noticing something different every time. The shape of her nose, the slight tilt of her head, the way she cocked her eyebrow… and Brian promised that he would never again spend Tuesday night drinking away his pain. He would spend it in celebration of the lives of three of the most important people in his life. He would spend it thankful for the love and understanding of the Waverly's.

He promised himself that tomorrow he would print off the pictures for Justin.

And he promised himself that he would call Emmett and plan a birthday party.


	4. 4 Just pushing a rock up a hill

CHAPTER 4: Just pushing a rock up a hill

_**Wednesday, March 13, 2002**_

"Absolutely not, Marty. You've known this for almost a year, now."

Marty Ryder sat back in his chair, an exasperated breath escaping as he folded his hands behind his head. Kinney was going to be the death of him, or his agency, for chrissakes.

"Send the Doublemint Twins, or send Kip. He's always bucking to be in the big leagues. Reschedule the presentation. Whatever you need to make it happen. But if you need me involved, it won't be on the 29th." Brian sat across the desk from his employer, his long legs crossed at the knee, presenting an elegant and determined figure.

"Brian, you are an executive with this company. I need you, as an employee of this company, to do this presentation. On the date scheduled. In Chicago." Marty slid the pertinent file folder across the desk toward the man.

Brian picked up the folder and looked through the information contained inside. Slowly, he then closed the file and placed it perfectly back in front of his employer as he stood up. He stopped his walk toward the door and let his shoulders slump slightly as he turned back around to face his boss. "You agreed to this, Marty. Over ten months ago, you agreed to this arrangement. I will work on Saturday, on Sunday, Christmas, Ground Hog Day and your ex-wife's second cousin's fucking birthday, if necessary! But I do not work on Tuesday."

"It's not negotiable, Brian," Marty spoke up as Brian opened the door to leave the office. Marty needed Brian to be there, agreement or not. He'd been a fool to agree to the man's ludicrous demands last year, but he'd literally been over a barrel with the Maars account and would have agreed to just about anything to have Brian nail it down. And that moment of weakness, and sympathy for Brian's claims of a continuing family issue, had come back to bite Marty's ass one too many times.

"You're right. It isn't negotiable," Brian said somberly. "But it is this simple, Marty. You can continue to do without me on Tuesdays per my contract rider, or the Ryder Agency can continue on without my talents altogether. Ball's in your court."

Brian Kinney had never been falsely modest about his talent, nor did he underestimate his worth at the Ryder Agency. He knew he was damned good at his job – fucking brilliant actually. Oh, he knew that Marty would bluster and bitch, but he wouldn't fire Brian. Not for that, anyway. The Ryder name may be on the door, but the Kinney talent was what got the client's to cough up the money.

Brian reached over and pressed the intercom. "Cynthia, could you tell me why the designs on the Burger Box account aren't up on the network?"

"They've been posted, Brian. I'll check to make sure but they're probably still in queue. By the way, there is a Mr. Honeycutt here to see you."

"Send him in. And, Cynthia… did you get those pictures printed for me?"

"I have them here. She's a beautiful child, Brian. Anything I should know about?" Brian could literally hear the smirk in the woman's voice.

"Probably, but now's not the time for sexual tips, Cynthia. Just bring in the pictures when you show in Honeycutt." He wished he _could_ discuss Bryn with his assistant. Cynthia had been his right hand for years, and she knew more about his personal life than any assistant should ever have to know. But this… this was private.

Brian heard three quick raps on the door as it snapped open and Cynthia walked in, Emmett following close behind, a virtual explosion of colors. A fucking rainbow Molotov cocktail.

"Christ, Emmett," Brian said, his tongue in his cheek and his hand over his eyes. "They could use you in the Middle East. You could blind the enemy and the fucking fighting would be over in minutes!"

"Good to see you, too, Mr. Monochrome." Emmett swept across the room, the free end of his aqua boa trailing behind him as he settled himself on the chair near Brian's desk.

"Here you go, Brian. The photos you wanted." She laid the small stack of prints on the corner of his desk. "You need anything else." She eyed the colorful man beside her boss warily.

"No, Cynthia," Brian chuckled. Emmett was a sight today, but then he always was. He had never met a prouder fag than Emmett Honeycutt. "Thanks." He smiled up at the woman who nodded slightly, took another surreptitious look at Brian's flamboyantly colorful guest, and retreated.

"She's quite a lovely thing, isn't she?" Emmett asked as Brian placed the photos in a large manila envelope. "A bit on the anxious side, though."

"Uh… Honeycutt… that's not anxiety you picked up on. That's embarrassment – for you. What the hell are you wearing, anyway?"

"Spring, Mr. Kinney. I'm wearing spring. Pittsburgh could use a bit of it right now. Have you noticed how gloomy it is out there today, all gray and depressing?" The colorful man ran his long fingers slowly over the edge of Brian's desk, measuring his next words. "Makes one feel a bit like being in prison, doesn't it?"

Brian's hand stilled noticeably on the flap of the envelope he was holding, and his heartbeat sped up just a fraction. _It's just a word choice, Kinney… merely a coincidence_. "I'm sure I wouldn't know, Honeycutt."

"Brian..."

"We need to discuss Vic's party, Emmett." Brian tried to redirect the dangerously uncomfortable direction of this conversation. He couldn't know. How _would_ he know? This was all just a fucking odd fluke. "I've been thinking about it and you can use the loft on the 26th. But it would have to be late evening."

"Brian…" Emmett tried again to voice his concerns. He was beginning to feel worried for his friend. His behavior at Babylon on Friday, his consistent unavailability every single Tuesday for months…

"Do you fucking want to discuss Vic's birthday or not, Emmett? That's what I asked you here for this morning!" Brian's voice carried an obvious edge of anger, unaware as to just how much he was giving away by his reaction. "If not, you can walk your rainbow ass out of here."

Emmett sat quietly, simply watching Brian, taking in the reactions of the man. He had never been intimidated by the Kinney mercurial moods and temperament. And his intuition had served him pretty well during his life. He knew Brian was going to be angry with what he had done, but… he could feel that Brian needed him. "Of course I want to discuss it, Brian! We can make it an amazing day for Vic… But…"

"No but, Emm…"

Emmett took a deep breath and steeled himself. "But, I wonder if you will be up to it. I… I know where you go on Tuesday, Brian." His voice had softened as he said the last.

Brian leaned back against his chair, his eyes closed and his jaws clenched. Honeycutt knew?

_What. The. Fuck_.

"What is it you think you know?" It was almost a whisper.

"It's the boy, isn't it? The boy from the trial." They'd all seen how difficult the trial had been for Brian. He'd obviously fucked the boy, at least according to Michael's account, and then the news reports. Brian had never said anything to them directly about it, had never talked to them about the boy or the attack or the trial, had refused to allow anyone to attend the trial. When the case broke, the entire gang had been stunned to hear the reports on the news, mentioning a prominent Pittsburgh advertising executive in connection with the attack of a high school senior. It was then that Brian began distancing himself from his friends, a fact that, in retrospect, had Emmett fighting his own feelings of guilt. God, the badgering they had given him!

"Justin. His name is Justin." The quiet words surprised Emmett. He was so certain Brian would be defensive and deny what Emmett knew to be the truth. But he sounded… relieved. And Brian was relieved, much to his own surprise. He had spent the last year avoiding his friends – at first because he couldn't deal with their inquisition, and then because he… didn't want to share. Share Justin.

"How did you find out?"

"I followed you," Emmett stated, matter-of-factly.

Brian's eyes widened and his jaws clenched again. Emmett fucking followed him? "Christ!" He could see the man visibly flinch at his exclamation, one hand wrapped up tightly in the flowing boa, the other pressed against his chest. Emmett. The queen. Wrapped in his pride cloak and jewel encrusted dagger. On a covert surveillance mission.

Brian laughed at the image until tears ran down his face.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Eleven months earlier**_**:**

"State your name and age for the court, please." George Pappas' voice belted out in the quiet room.

"Brian Kinney. I'm 29." Brian could already feel the bile threatening to rise from his stomach. He had been prepared for his testimony, as well as one could be, by George Pappas. The DA was going for the full monty with this trial. The man, it seemed, had a few mayoral aspirations and a hard line conviction of a young gay boy would endear him to the conservative political machine.

The perfunctory background questioning began.

_What do you do for a living, Mr. Kinney. _

_How long have you lived in the area, Mr. Kinney. _

_Do you have any criminal history, Mr. Kinney._

Then it became personal.

"Mr. Kinney, are you acquainted with the defendant, Justin Taylor?"

He could hear George's voice during coaching. _Keep it short. Don't expound. Answer only and exactly what you are asked._

"Yes, I am." George nodded to his witness. He feared Brian's temper during the cross, but at least he could set some ideas in the jury's mind prior to that. Brian had to maintain a balance between caring and removed where it concerned his knowledge of Justin. Too familiar and the jury would read bias into his perceptions. Too removed and they would doubt his character.

"And, exactly _how_ are you acquainted with the defendant?"

"We… had a one night stand." His heart plummeted as he looked toward Justin, saw him close his eyes and stare at his hands folded on top of the defense table.

"You had sex?"

"Yes."

"Was that on the night of September 24, 2000?"

"Yes."

"Now, you stated for the court that you are 29 years old?"

"Yes."

"At the time of your one night stand, Justin Taylor would have been 17, above the age of legal consent in Pennsylvania?"

"Yes, he was." He wanted to look at Justin again, wanted to reassure him, comfort him. But he couldn't. The boy was facing prison _and_ having his sex life dragged out in front of his family, his friends – the fucking world. He was being fucking devastated and nothing Brian could do would offer any comfort for that.

"Did the defendant spend the night with you that night, Mr. Kinney?"

"Yes. I drove him to school the next morning." George gave Brian a pointed look. _No harm done – this time, but don't expound!_

"Could you tell the Court what occurred the morning of September 25th?" This was a crucial point… getting the jury to understand the outing of one Justin Taylor. Everything hinged upon that important event.

"A friend of mine had my Jeep for the night. It had been vandalized and the word 'FAGGOT' had been spray painted across the passenger side, in neon pink. I…I dropped Justin off at St. James Academy, his school, in that Jeep." Brian drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes before continuing. He looked toward the defense table and saw… tears and bright blue eyes. His breath hitched as he said, "I… essentially outed him."

"When you say 'outed', for those on the jury who may not be familiar with the term, what do you mean?" George empathized with Brian's pain. And with Justin's. They had both been caught up in a major clusterfuck of circumstances that led them to this courtroom, a clusterfuck from which neither man would ever completely recover. He knew Brian thought he should be sitting at that defense table in Justin's place.

"Justin is gay, was gay long before I met him, of course. But he hadn't told anyone. The kids, teachers at his school, his parents – no one knew. When I drove up with him in the Jeep with that graffiti on the side, when the students all stood there and stared at him as he got out and walked to the school… they all suddenly knew. One boy called him by name and asked if he wanted to su… perform a sexual act on him. God…" Brian felt his own tears of remorse begin to sting and he balled his hands into fists, willing them to not fall. He heard murmurs run through the courtroom and he had to keep his eyes trained on George's just to keep from beating his fists against the witness box in frustration. Fuck! He had messed up so fucking royally!

_My life is a fucking mess… because of you and your fucked up life, Brian._

And Justin was paying for it.

He was able to remain somewhat calm as George led him through the morning of Tuesday, September 26, 2000. Through the beating given to Justin by Hobbs' and his gang. Through the truth. He only hoped to whatever god might care that the jury heard it. Believed it.

"No more questions, Your Honor."

"Mr. Horton, you may cross-examine."

"Are you in the habit of picking up young boys for sex, Mr. Kinney?" Brian's jaw snapped tightly shut and his back stiffened. Yeah, he knew where this was leading. Right out of the fucking box! Goddamned homophobic prick.

"Objection!" George Pappas was instantly on his feet. "Counsel is well aware of the implications of his question, Your Honor. He is also well aware that the _de jure_ age of consent in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is 16." *

"Mr. Pappas is also well aware that the potential _de facto_ age of consent in this Commonwealth, Your Honor, is 18, based upon the corruption of minors statute. I am simply attempting to address the character of this witness." **

"Statute does not apply in this instance, Counsel." Shit! George Pappas was well aware of the statute, as was his 'learned' opponent. It did not fucking apply! And they both _knew_ that. They were also both well aware that what the jury heard, the jury could not unhear, regardless of any objection ruling by the judge. _Fuck_ the man. _Fuck_ him.

"Objection sustained. The jury will disregard the question. Mr. Horton, you will refrain from this type of questioning. Rephrase or move on."

"My apologies to the Court, Your Honor." The DA nodded slightly in the direction of the judge, an abashed look on his face. Inside, however, he was smirking. He had gotten his point across. Kinney was now a letch who preyed on children in the eyes of at least some on the jury, and his testimony would subsequently be colored by that perception.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Wednesday, March 13, 2002**_

Justin stood in line in the 'dining hall' of Mercer Prison, his tray half filled with a few of the more edible looking items from the kitchen. He was almost laughing at the similarities between prison food and that at St. James Academy – mystery meat Wednesday – when his felt a shove from the line behind him causing the tray he was holding to fall to the floor. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath as he heard a guard loudly admonish him to clean up his mess. "Fuck!"

There was not a lot of heavy violence in the lower security institution. It did happen, but for the most part the weapon of choice was intimidation. A hard shove here, a lost lunch there. Just the stronger keeping the weaker in their place. As he looked down at the mess his now useless lunch had made on the gray tile, he tried to suck back the feeling of hopelessness that threatened him. He felt lost in some fucking cosmic film noire, doomed to repeat cycle after cycle of a battle he was always on the losing end of. All of his naïve dreams of leaving the torment of St. James and getting out into the possibilities and potential offered by the real world were just so much delusional bullshit. There had just been a trade of one institution for another, one torment for another. A single night… he'd had _one_ _single_ _fucking_ _night_ of that 'real world'. And that night had both expanded every hope he'd ever had of what life could be, and had contracted his reality into this tight little ball of hell.

"Problem, Taylor?"

Justin startled and turned to stare into the rugged, dark skinned face of the speaker. The dark eyes of the guard that watched him gave nothing away. They just… were. Intense. Unreadable. Ancient.

"No. No problem," he replied as he reached down to retrieve the fallen tray and pick up the scattered remains of what had been his lunch. He took the napkins and wiped away the spilled peaches, picked up the now dirty sandwich and tossed everything in the trash can.

"Don't let it break you, kid."

"What?"

"Lock-up. It can break the good men." Justin turned his head, a little surprised at having his thoughts so easily read. But, then again, this _was_ prison. Every thought ran along these lines, he'd guess.

"I know your story, Taylor. Viciously beating up a jock, putting him in a coma." The guard chuckled. "Been here long enough to call bullshit when I see it. So, just watch your head as much as you watch your back. Don't become…this." The older guard stood and watched the young man for just a moment too long before nodding once and returning to his post along the wall. He'd seen these kids before. Innocent or near enough, fucked by a system they could have survived if they hadn't ended up for years behind bars. Seen it eat them up and puke out something unrecognizable. And this boy was a prime target – for the system and the meat eaters that populated it. Young, pretty, slight… Just like DeVonn.

And, as long as there was a breath in his body, he wouldn't let that happen again.

The short, almost innocuous encounter with the guard – Whitefall, according to his badge – caused a shiver along Justin's spine. He couldn't deny that there was a battle to hold on to some grain of sanity going on inside him, a battle he fought every waking moment. Whitefall could obviously see it. _Watch your head_… Justin knew it was experience the guard was speaking from, not some kind of psychological insight. He turned back toward the dining hall and saw him in the line of guards along the far wall, standing tall, unreadable eyes already taking in the various other men in the room.

He sat in his cell later in the afternoon, obsessively rerunning the lunch encounter with Whitefall. He had been keeping a journal, of sorts, since shortly after he arrived at Mercer. There was no best friend here to help him sort and organize his thoughts and feelings. There was no art to help channel his emotions and perceptions. There was no intellectual stimulation to encourage him and make him think beyond the obvious. Everything he had to sort, channel and encourage him was right here, caught up in the spiral wire binding of a 150 page college rule notebook.

_Dear Bryn:_

_Hey, Muchkin, it's me again. Your dad. _

_Your dad. _

_Every time I write that, I ache, Bryn. To hold you – to see you – to just know you are okay. That you are growing and happy and healthy. It's all I want. If I never have anything else in my life, Bryn – if I knew that you were happy and healthy, I would be okay. I make a vow to you right now that when I get out of this place – a place I hope in my heart you never know about – I will find a way to make sure you are happy and healthy. You may never know me, but I'll be here for you with everything I am if you need me, Bryn. _

_I had a strange run-in today with one of the guards. He seemed to know that I'm close to losing my battle to stay sane in here, to keep a handle on that part of me that makes me Justin Taylor and not Inmate Taylor and it's a painful war. He was telling me, I think, to make sure I keep fighting, no matter how painful it is. It's so fucking hard, Munchkin! And it's not about whether I'm guilty or innocent, or right or wrong. I know the truth about that. It's about you and your mom, and even about Brian. _

_God, Bryn… Brian is amazing. We had a kind of 'moment' when he was here yesterday. Did I tell you that he is here every Tuesday? Yeah? Well, I'm telling you again. He is here every Tuesday. So is your mom. And I live for Tuesday. The rest of the week is kind of one long sleepwalk. I only wake up for those few hours they are here. _

_But yesterday? He looked at me and it was just us. Not another soul around. No guards, no prison walls, no barbed wire outside the windows. Only Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney. And I told him, as much as I could with a look, that I love him. And God, I love him, Bryn. And I heard him 'not say' that, too. I know, I know. You don't have to tell me. Dreamy eyed school boy fantasies. Well, if that's the kind of fucking fantasy that keeps me hanging on, then I'll keep it, thank you. You'll understand someday. Maybe I'll understand someday. _

_God, there are so many things I want to write here, Little Munchkin, that just aren't appropriate in any way to write in a journal to my daughter. Even if you will never see it. Maybe I'll have to start a journal to Brian, to share all the things I want to share with him. I could start with the dream I had the other night. I dreamed about our lives. We were all sitting around a big table – the one in his friend's house that he has told me so much about – having dinner on Sunday. All of his friends were there, and you were there, and your mom. With all the baked ziti and lasagna and bread and wine we could handle. I could fucking _taste_ it, Bryn! Brian was holding you and I was sitting between him and your mom, and we were all laughing over something his son, Gus, had done or said. And everyone was happy! _

_And it fucking seemed so much more real than Mercer. _

_I love you, Munchkin. _

_Later,_

_Daddy_

*The age of sexual consent, straight or gay, in Pennsylvania is (and ostensibly was in 2000) 16. There are no statutory limitations in Pennsylvania on who a person of 16 can have sex with, as long as that partner is over the age of 16 as well. .us/

**The corruption of minors statute makes it a crime for anyone over the age of 18 to corrupt the morals of a person under the age of 18, enticing them to commit any crime or violate their parole, or engage in any activity that would result in 'deviate' sexual activity. Since consensual sexual activity is legal at or above the age of 16, the statute would not apply unless some other (criminally enticing) circumstance was involved. This was, of course, a legal ploy by the DA. blog/pennsylvania-age-of-consent/


	5. 5 Between the blues we cannot name

CHAPTER 5: Between the blues we cannot name*

_**Monday, March 18, 2002**_

He could hear the smooth whisky of Van Morrison's _Days Like This_ before he reached the loft door. The cables groaned slightly beneath the weight of the heavy metal sliding back and he was immediately warmed by the sweet aroma of corned beef. Brian pulled his lips between his teeth to stave off the wide grin that threatened to break out on his face when he saw the girl slowly swaying back and forth to the bluesy music – bandana tight around her bouncy curls as she shook her head back forth, dish towel thrown across her shoulder, wooden spoon held in front of her like a hand mike. She was so into her space she hadn't heard the door open, didn't notice Brian walking up behind her.

"Jesus Christ!" she squealed when Brian grabbed the spoon and placed it on the stove top, pulled her into his arms and began the slow dance. When the recognition came, her alarm settled into an embarrassed smile and she let him lead the steps they had practiced on so many occasions lately.

"Why do you always scare the shit out of me, Brian?"

"You zone out so completely, Princess, that the whole of Pittsburgh could sneak up on you." He laughed and dipped her slightly before placing a brotherly kiss on the tip of her nose and releasing her. "Smells good, but what's the occasion?"

"Class let out early today, and I thought I'd drop in and see if you wanted to celebrate it with me."

Brian shrugged off his jacket and placed his briefcase on the island stool. "Deal… if you'll give me a few minute to shower and change… and promise I won't be wearing it before the meal's over."

"Never let me live that down, will you?" She blushed lightly at the reminder of a less friendly encounter in their past. "But, in my own defense, I thought you deserved it at the time."

Brian's face blanched at the memory of that eventful run-in at the Greek restaurant so many months ago. "We both know I probably did."

"No. You didn't. I was wrong about that, Brian," Daphne said as she turned and placed her arms around her handsome, sad friend. "I was wrong about a lot of things then."

"We both were." Brian kissed the top of the young girl's head and walked into the shower, hoping that this time the hot water would wash away some of the guilt he still carried. But he knew it wouldn't. Couldn't get him clean again.

As he stood beneath the nearly scalding spray, his hands soaped and running through his hair, he closed his eyes against the memory that would invariably torture him. Or to welcome that sublime torture as the images began to assault him. Other hair, another body. Seductive and sweet. Voluptuous and virginal. Lithe muscles welcoming him inside so eagerly… unjaded hands desperately seeking some hold on the glass as he pressed against it… teasing, tasting, giving… accepting him…

"Fuck!" Brian whispered desperately as he pressed his own body back against the glass enclosure, breath ragged and heart racing. Just the erotic mental images of the one night he and Justin had shared their bodies again and again threatened to push him over that edge. With one hand sliding down to his engorged cock, one touch, one thrust into his own fist and he came explosively, a single word longingly groaned out into the now chilly spray. "Justin…"

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Sixteen months earlier:**_

"No one knows you here, Justin. They are _not_ all looking at you."

Goddamned news reports! Justin's anxiety had reached almost paralyzing levels, paranoia even, as a result of the seemingly never ending reports of the attack and Hobbs' hospitalization. They had finally eased off – just a mention or two now that Chris had come out of the coma and his injuries were being reported. But it had affected Justin to the point that he was closing himself up in the guest room at her house. He couldn't return to school since the expulsion – not that he would consider it anyway with Hobbs' crew of friends still running around free as birds. The only time she could force him out of the room was when he had to see the attorney. Today Mr. Pappas had called him in to go over some details about Hobbs' actions toward him in the days before the attack, and she had jumped on the opportunity to make him do something else – anything else.

Last week's visit to the attorney had been devastating to her friend. Finding out that his parents had essentially abandoned him to a fate he certainly didn't deserve, that Brian Kinney had paid for his bail and the attorney fees, and then the horribly emotional encounter with Kinney at his loft… It was all just too much. When she had finally been able to get him back to her house, he'd immediately hidden himself away again. She didn't know what the hell to do, but she had promised then and there she would not let him become a hermit, not let him hide himself away like some diseased leper. He was Justin Taylor, damnit. He was the beautiful, brave, free spirit that held them together. He was her fucking best friend!

So, here they were, a week later sitting in a dark restaurant on the far side of town, a restaurant that was way too expensive, way too mature for their tastes. But it was close to the attorney's office, and it was quiet and removed from most of the eyes Justin felt were following him all the time.

"Jus. I have to go to the restroom before the food comes. Will you be okay?" At the slightly panicked look on her friend's face, she promised, "I'll be right back." With his nod she squeezed his shoulder lightly and turned toward the main area of the dining room.

As she left the restroom and walked back toward the table where she had left her friend, Daphne felt a tension start in the back of her throat. Justin was gone. _Maybe he went to the restroom, too_, she thought hopefully, all the while frantically looking around the room.

And there he was. Standing rigidly at a table with George Pappas.

And that fucker, Brian Kinney.

As she approached the group of men, she could hear bits and pieces of the whispered, angry words her friend spit out. "… can't even leave the house… _you_ are free to go where _you_ want… ruined my life…" She could see Justin's fists balled up tightly at his sides, and Mr. Pappas' hand restraining her friend as he leaned in closely toward Brian Kinney's face. The expression on the older man's face was unreadable as he sat silently absorbing Justin's quiet tirade. When she saw Kinney's hand move toward Justin as if to touch him, the anger and frustration of the last two months broke loose inside her.

"Don't!" she hissed. "Don't you fucking _dare_ touch him!"

"Ms. Chanders…" George Pappas began, trying to avoid the confrontation he felt was inevitable.

"This moment, right here, does _not_ concern you, Mr. Pappas. This is about _him_." She turned her eyes toward Brian, whose face was as expressionless as ever, but whose eyes were flashing with unspoken emotion. "What are you doing here?"

Brian gathered himself to speak. He would never let anyone, especially the little hellcat staring him down, know exactly how much this encounter had shaken him. The guilt he carried from his part in Justin's problems was eating him alive. He hadn't been able to sleep, to eat, to even fucking think for the last two months. His work was beginning to suffer from the stress, he hadn't been able to be around his friends for weeks, and he was himself avoiding being in public when he didn't have to be. When George had called him to discuss Justin's case over dinner, he had almost refused. He wished now that he had.

"I'm trying to enjoy my dinner, Ms. Chanders. This is a restaurant. That's what one usually does here." Christ! He knew his sarcasm wasn't necessary, but he fucking couldn't help it. _Suck it up, Kinney. They are dealing with a hell of a lot more than you are right now._

In one swift movement of Daphne's hand, Brian's dinner was suddenly spilling down the front of his beautiful Armani jacket, settling into his lap. "Then we certainly wouldn't want to intrude upon your _enjoyment_, Mr. Kinney." She could not have cared less about the cost of the suit, or the shock on the faces of both Brian and the attorney. Turning to her friend, she hugged him to her and whispered, "Let's go home, Jus," as she led the stunned young man to her car.

Later, as Daphne stood outside Justin's closed door, her heart breaking with every sob she heard him make, she had no fucking idea what to do to help him. He was falling apart completely through all this. And she had never been so scared for anyone in her life. She regretted, _now_, her actions at the restaurant, but it just fucking wasn't fair! She realized, _now_, just how valid Justin's fears were about not feeling safe in public. How the hell was he supposed to handle all this at seventeen? Fuck his goddamned parents! Fuck Hobbs and his stupid group of friends! And fuck Brian Kinney!

The angry young woman stood up and walked down to the den, pulling out a bottle of her father's liquor, not giving two shits what it was. At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the door to the guest room. Justin was lying curled on his bed, his face buried in his pillow, hiccupping deeply. Daphne reached over and shook him lightly.

"C'mon, Justin. You and I are going to get drunk."

"We don't drink, Daph."

"Yeah, well, we don't do a lot of other stuff we seem to be doing lately either, so…" She took a long pull from the bottle, yelping at the burn as the bourbon found its way through her. Justin took the bottle from her hands and followed suit. They drank until everything was funny, and kept drinking until everything was sad again.

As he looked at the nearly empty bottle, trying desperately to focus his eyes on the label swimming before them, Justin quietly said, "You know, this is the shit my dad drinks." Daphne pulled him awkwardly into her arms as they lay on the bed. She could feel the tremors begin in his slight shoulders as the pain once again filled him. There was just too much of it to drink away.

"I'm sorry, Jus. I'm so sorry they treat you like this."

"You. You're the only one, Daph, the only one… Why can't anybody else love me? What'd I ever do that was so… fucking bad?" She could hear the pain taking over him – she felt it too – and she knew she wanted to do anything to make him stop hurting. Even for a minute.

"I love you, Jus. I'm here. Shhh…"

Neither one of them knew who kissed who first. Neither one of them cared at that moment. They both just knew they needed… something… someone. It didn't seem wrong or strange or anything but necessary. And as Justin entered her, neither one thought about the lack of a condom or that she was a virgin or that he was gay – they were absorbed in the pain and the anger and the need and the alcohol. They would both remember in the morning, adding one more guilt to their growing measure of it, but they wouldn't mention it. If they didn't mention it, they could pretend. At least for a little while.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Tuesday, March 19, 2002**_

Justin sat anxiously at the plain table in the common area, his fingers tapping on the table top, knee bouncing up and down beneath it. The smile already fixed on his beautiful face grew wider still as he saw Daphne and Brian both walk through the door. Looking over quickly at the guard watching the entrance, he took a deep breath and mustered all the reserves he had to keep himself from rushing both of them into his arms. He had never been so excited to see anyone!

"God, thank you!" A few tears fought with his smile as he hugged Brian just a little tighter and longer than permitted. "Thank you for sending them. I haven't stopped looking at them since yesterday," he whispered into Brian's ear. He released Brian quickly, seeing the guard shift slightly toward them, but not so quickly that he missed the tightening of Brian's arms at his whispered words.

Daphne reached up and pulled Justin into a hug as Brian composed himself. Just that slight contact had him so emotional, so painfully aware of the limitations this place imposed on everyone. Yet it meant more than any extended intimacy he had known. When he felt Justin's breath on his neck as he whispered to him… God, he just needed to touch him. _Really_ hold him. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat as he walked toward their assigned area.

"She's beautiful, isn't she," Daphne, Brian and Justin all sat with their fingertips almost touching on the table. The smile on her face, almost matching the one on Justin's, glowed as she asked the question. Justin had never met his daughter, had never even seen a picture of her before yesterday. It would have meant so much more if they could have delivered the pictures personally. She hated the damned prison rules. But from the look on Justin's face, she knew it didn't really matter. He was ecstatic.

"She's like… this perfect blend of us, Daph. All blue eyes and coffee skin."

"And that grin! Justin, that grin is _so_ you!"

Brian smiled at the excitement of the two teenagers. And for at least this few minutes in time, that's what they were. He could almost forget for a moment that they were all adults sitting inside a fucking prison talking about a child these two had given up for adoption. He fucking hated – _hated_ – that these sad circumstances were the happiest things in their lives right now. Christ! There had to be _something_...

The phone call he'd received from George last night – a phone call he definitely wasn't going to bring up to the pair today – hadn't given much hope for success at the upcoming parole hearing. George admitted that Justin had been a model prisoner. He dutifully performed every thankless job they assigned to him, he had done his hours of coursework to obtain his required GED, and he followed every fucking rule they handed out to him. But with his own parents prepared to give statements against release at the hearing, with the severity of Hobbs' continuing medical problems, and with Justin's adamant refusal to admit any guilt, Justin was fighting a losing battle. Another losing battle.

"Brian?" Daphne's concerned voice brought Brian out of his reverie.

"I'm sorry. What?"

Justin laughed at the man's obvious confusion. "It's okay, Brian. I do a lot of that myself."

"A lot of what? Stammering?" Brian was slightly embarrassed at having been caught giving them less than his full attention, especially today.

"A lot of daydreaming." The gentle chuckle and the smile on Justin's face told Brian he wasn't upset, that he knew Brian's thoughts had been drawn away to another important place or time. Brian had no idea of how often Justin's own thoughts were torn out of the present. Try as he might to focus his mind on the here and now, just to be present in this new life in order to accept it, he found himself slipping to other Tuesdays, to a single night on Liberty Avenue, to his fifth birthday party – to anything happy.

"I was telling Jus about the Waverly's, how kind they were to you about the photos."

"Yeah, they're good people and I'm glad you were able to choose them yourself. You gave Bryn the second best family she could have." Brian's fingers smoothed back a stray lock of Daphne's unruly hair, but his eyes were speaking to Justin.

_She should have been with you_.

_She's where she should be, Brian_.

They had played this argument out before.

"I'm still… I'm so sorry, Daph. I could _never_ regret that Bryn was born, but she's just something else you shouldn't have had to give up. Because of me." The ease of the day seemed to end as the guilt each held, that each fought against every single day, resurfaced.

"Wait a minute, Justin Taylor. If I remember correctly, it definitely takes two to have a child, and _I_ was the one who decided to place her for adoption." Daphne straightened up in her seat as she played with Justin's fingers on the table.

"No!" Justin hissed out the words. "You were ram-rodded into giving her up! If Brian hadn't been there…" Justin's voice trailed off as he let the anger at his mother, at Daphne's mother overtake him.

"But he was there. And I still made the decision." Daphne said quietly, reaching for Brian's hand.

"At least you know where she is. And you know that she's beautiful and healthy. And happy. Those are the important things," Brian stated. "What your parents did is… unforgivable. But they didn't totally win."

The sound Justin made when he laughed held no trace of humor. "When did my parents ever do anything that wasn't unforgivable? I… I'll just never understand why?"

"Because they are small minded, hate filled bigots who are so blinded by their need to protect their social façade that they can't see the fucking beauty they had in you." Brian's face drew up in anger and renewed hatred of the people who were supposed to love and protect this boy – this man. He _had_ trusted them. They had fucking _taught_ him to trust them. Had given him the perfect life. And they didn't even have the guts to face him… to tell him why they threw him away. Gutless shits.

"You think I'm a beauty, huh?" Brian snorted at Justin's obvious attempt to bring him back from the brink. God, the boy could make him laugh, could bring him up from the lowest low.

"Oh, yeah," Brian retorted. "A definite beauty." He lightly traced his thumb over the now healed tattoo on Justin's middle finger.

He should be… he would be…free.

If it was the last fucking thing Brian ever did, he would make sure of that.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Ten months earlier:**_

"At this point, Daphne, what you want is not the main priority. The future of that child is." Jennifer Taylor stared down at the girl lying in the rumpled hospital bed. She was still struggling to grasp the fact that neither she nor Craig had been made aware of Daphne's pregnancy, a pregnancy for which her son was apparently responsible. God, just how many ways could her son humiliate this family? Gay, the attack on Hobbs, the trial and conviction, and now…this? Where in his life had they gone wrong?

Daphne lay exhausted and devastated. Less than six hours ago she had given birth to a daughter… her child. Justin's child. A child who shouldn't have been born for another two and a half months. Just yesterday – and god, it seemed so much longer ago than that – her daughter had been safely cradled inside her. Protected. Safe. A secret. As the bailiff read the jury's verdict she felt the first searing pain slice through her back. As the guards handcuffed Justin and led him out of the courtroom, his name tore itself from her throat; her body ripped itself in two. The last thing she remembered was Brian, his face tear streaked and agonized, rocking her on the courtroom floor as she slipped from bloody red to sweet black reprieve.

"Go away." It was meant to be a scream. An order. But a grating hiss was all she could manage. The blood loss – the surgery – the pain. She was so fucking weak and she just wanted to be alone. With her daughter.

"Oh, no, young lady. You and Justin wanted to play at being all grown up?" Jennifer Taylor's voice carried with it every ounce of the condescension she had cultivated in her forty years. "Now you will act like an adult for once."

"Daphne, Mrs. Taylor is right. You can't take care of a child – a premature, sick child," Abby Chanders smoothed back the hair from her daughter's forehead. She loved her daughter, and she had supported Justin when his parents weren't there for him. But this… she was ruining her life for this boy. "You aren't married, Daphne, and who knows how long Justin will be in prison. You need to sign the papers."

Daphne didn't have the energy left to cry. She couldn't feel beyond the pain and fatigue, the confusion of the last twenty-four hours. Justin was gone; her baby was struggling just to breathe. And she hadn't even told him! He never knew about her. Oh, god, she had made so many bad decisions, had fucked up so badly – but she had _tried_ so _hard_ to do the right thing. To be strong and not put any more on him. She had kept her secret and had begged Brian to keep it, too, when he guessed. She only hoped that one day Justin would be able to forgive her. But this… no. No. She could not give her child to the Taylors. He would _never_ forgive her for that.

"We can give her everything she needs – the best medical treatments, a good home, a loving home."

"What the fuck? A fucking loving home? _You_?" Brian had heard Jennifer Taylor's last comments as he entered the room. Just what the hell did they think they were doing? "Get the _FUCK_ out of this room!"

"Mr. Kinney…" Daphne's mother turned toward the angry man. "This is _MY_ daughter. You have no right here."

"Get. The. Fuck. Out. NOW! Before I call security." Brian pressed his face close to Abby Chander's. "Your daughter has just had a child. She went through fucking surgery not six hours ago! How the hell dare you come in here with your bullshit documents and try to force her into a decision while she's on fucking morphine!"

"I think I can provide…"

Brian cut Jennifer's comment off. "You can provide shit! The same shit you provided for your _son_! Now, I will warn you for the last time. Get out. Believe me, _Mrs_. Taylor… Daphne will make up her own mind about her daughter. But I can guarantee, _you_ will not touch that child."

He sat carefully on the side of the hospital bed and drew a shaking Daphne close, kissing her gently on the forehead. "It's okay, baby." He knew it was far from okay, even as the two women left the room. But it was all he could offer.

*_Delilah Blue_, words and music by Joshua Kadison.


	6. Chapter 6 To lesser evils

CHAPTER 6: To lesser evils

_**Tuesday, March 26, 2002**_

Justin smirked as he watched Brian focus on the one finger lightly running the edge of the baby bottle ring he had found on the floor. It had fallen out of some mother's baby bag and he should most likely return it. But there was precious little opportunity for outright teasing and flirting in here – he would take it where he could get it. From the hungry, slightly pained look on his visitor's face, the tease wasn't lost – at all. If the man's face told the truth, Brian was having some… _difficulties_. Hell, truth be told Justin was having his own… _difficulties_. And he didn't need the teasing finger play to get those going. All he needed was seeing the man sitting across from him. And his _very_ vivid memories.

There was a bittersweetness to those memories for Justin. He no longer regretted the night he and Brian had spent together. Oh, for a long time he considered it as the beginning of hell for him, but he didn't regret it now. If anything, he clung to it like a fucking lifeline! It was all he had – his entire bank of sexual experience. There were plenty of opportunities to hook up here, and he'd even fought off a few 'offers' that bordered on demand. But even as inexperienced, scared and, yeah, fucking horny, as he had been when he arrived, he wasn't fool enough to open _that_ Pandora's box.

He didn't count the night with Daphne. That hadn't been sex; that had been some kind of… insanity. He supposed the night with Brian had been insanity, too.

But, fucking lord, what he wouldn't give to be that crazy again!

"Um… why'd you stop?" The husky sound of the words snapped Justin back to the man of his daydreams.

"What?" Justin followed Brian's nod and noticed he was now tightly clutching the bottle ring in his fist.

"Why'd you stop? I was…enjoying the show. Gave a whole new meaning to rimming." Brian had been lost in his own memory. The feel of the boy's soft flesh giving beneath him, the earthy taste of that sweet ass… And, _fuck_… he'd been right _there_ – right on that edge. Just _watching_ him –that one fingertip that he couldn't even touch… Christ!

"You freak," Justin laughed, his face flushing. He got hard, again, as he thought of Brian and rimming. And the fucking smirk on Brian's face wasn't helping his situation one bit.

Brian laughed and took the offending piece of plastic from the young man's hand, holding it up by two fingers. "_You_ are the one who started _this_ little game, Sonny Boy."

"I… I was… uh… bored," Justin defended, his own smirk in place. This one embarassed. "Yeah. Bored."

The group huddled at the adjacent table looked over curiously at the snorting sound Brian made. He placed the plastic back on the table, pushing it slightly out the way, laughing.

"Yeah, well, looks like we're drawing an audience. And as much as I'm a fan of public… _boredom_…"

He let the thought hang unfinished between them. They both recognized the sexual tension; both knew it was a slightly dangerous game they were playing. Neither one was ready for the consequences if they were caught playing it.

"Justin, I know it's hard…"

This time, Justin snorted, an amused '_you did not just say that'_ look on his face.

"Shit. Okay… I know it's _difficult_…" Brian corrected.

"You have no fucking idea, Brian, just how… difficult." Brian knew their play was over as he heard the suddenly serious tone of Justin's words. "I'm literally surrounded by men. Even if I was straight it would be a challenge – but I'm fucking gay! A constantly horny nineteen year old, for chrissake!" He paused and looked directly into the older man's eyes. "They don't exactly supply us with condoms, Brian. Inmates fucking other inmates is not something they actively encourage."

"Jesus…"

"Yeah, Jesus."

"But… the worst part is not touching. I can't _touch_ anyone, Brian. It's too… it's not a good idea here. I haven't really touched anyone in over ten fucking month! Not even a damned friendly hug." Justin took a deep breath as a winsome little smile played on his lips. "Except on Tuesday."

Brian's eyes barely registered the small smile before they closed against the sting of tears behind them. Christ! He knew how much those small touches on Tuesday meant to him personally. He literally lived his week waiting to simply touch Justin. But to Justin they were… everything. Every goddamned thing. Brian could walk away from this room and find a dozen tricks ready, willing and able to suck or be fucked. He could shake a hand, or hug Deb without thinking about it. He could pick up his son and feel those warm little arms wrap around him.

He could _touch_ them.

And this man sitting across from him – this man who had been screwed over by a fucking homophobic world, who deserved every fucking good thing in that world… This man who made Brian feel things he'd never dared to feel, to even _think_ of feeling… he couldn't even touch.

Brian _had_ a life outside. He had the fucking _luxury_ of being torn between his Tuesday world and the touchable, fuckable, livable life he had the rest of the week. And it _was_ a luxury, as incomprehensible as it was to think of it as that. Justin had Tuesday. The rest of his week was no fucking life at all.

Justin was right.

Brian had no fucking idea.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Six months earlier**_**:**

"Dada!"

Brian's face broke out in a grin at the still unfamiliar sound of his son calling him 'Dada'. He'd been saying it, off and on, for about two weeks. This child Brian hadn't even really wanted to begin with, made his entire day with two badly enunciated syllables.

"Hey, Sonny Boy. You having a happy birthday?" Little hands patted the smooth olive cheeks, one tiny finger poked inside Brian's mouth with a giggle.

"He's definitely your son. One year old and already shoving things in someone's mouth." Michael slapped his friend on the shoulder as he walked toward the cake table.

"Christ, Mikey. Ignoring the unfortunate, and I sincerely hope _unintended_, incestuous connotation to that comment, I'd say we should give him at least a few years before we have him sexually fixated. Maybe he should learn to walk – or ride a bike before that?" Mikey never knew when to think and when to speak. Somehow, somewhere along the line Deb had forgotten to install his verbal filter. What he thought, he said. Brian had to laugh at his own hypocrisy. He and Mikey did have that in common – missing filters. Only, Brian thought, _his_ missing filter was for his dick.

"What the hell happened to this thing?" Michael had moved on from the moment, now staring in frustration – plate in hand – at the purple and chocolate remains of the one-year-old's decimated birthday cake. "It looks like the Joker exploded."

"Good boy, Gus! You pissed off your Uncle Mikey," Brian whispered loudly to the wiggling boy in his arms, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead as he lowered him to the playpen.

"I think it was Barney, Mikey. Gus is a little young to grasp the nuances of the Joker."

"Purple dinosaur, purple villain. Not a lot of difference." Michael sighed as he put the plate back on the table. "You meeting us at Babylon later?"

"Not tonight, Mikey. Early day tomorrow." Michael was leaving in a few days – beginning his new life in Portland with the good doctor – and Brian felt a sharp pang of… What? Regret? He _should_ be there with him tonight. But… tomorrow was Tuesday. _Not just any Tuesday_. It was one of the rare times he and Daphne would visit together, so they'd planned to meet for breakfast before driving to Mercer. To make the day last longer, to fill as much of it as possible for Justin, they usually tried to stagger their arrivals. But _this_ visit… this was different. This week marked one year since the attack. And tonight… tonight was one year since…

"What the hell is going on with you, Brian?"

"Mikey…"

"Don't. Just don't do that. Don't brush me off again." The crestfallen look on Michael's face stabbed at Brian. "I'm _moving_, Brian. The other side of the fucking country. I wanted to spend some time with my friend before I leave, for chrissake. And we all know that tomorrow is out, whatever the fuck _that's_ all about."

Brian pulled his best friend into a tight embrace, burying his face in the smaller man's shoulder. So many times he'd been tempted to tell Michael about his visits to Mercer, to explain his absences on Tuesday. But he knew his friend. Knew he would never understand the strong connection to Justin, the need to be there for him. Michael had been supportive during the trial – what he and the others knew of it – but he was supportive of _Brian_, not Justin. In Michael's mind, Justin was the bad kid who dragged Brian into his problems, parading his involvement with him around on the front page of the local papers, and no amount of explanation on Brian's part would have convinced him otherwise. Not that Brian had tried that hard to explain. He kept his guilt to himself. This was a part of his life his friends couldn't share. One he wouldn't let them share.

"I'll be there, Mikey. Tonight," he said, and pulled his friend closer.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Tuesday, March 26, 2002**_

The harsh blare of the warning buzzer didn't _quite_ startle them. They always expected it. Ten months of repetition tends to affect one's internal clock, and they instinctively knew, almost to the minute, when visiting hours were over. Today, for Brian, the end of their time meant something a little more than it had when he walked in. Justin had given him another small piece of himself today, had made himself that much more vulnerable with his admission of loneliness. Justin missed simply touching and Brian felt an overwhelming urgency to let him feel, to let him have touch. But in this fucked up system that made touching a reason to be stricken from the visitor's list, he wasn't sure how he was going to manage it.

As the guards milled around the room, urging the departure of straggling visitors, Brian and Justin stood for one extra long moment looking at each other. Memorizing. Capturing something that they could take with them – hang onto. Justin's eyes lingered over the soft, sensuous lips. Brian's lingered over deep, haunted sapphire blue. He pulled the young man in for their _allowed_ touch. It was just a moment – he had to make it count. Pressing his body into the contours and curves of Justin's, he curled his fingers into the short hair at the back of Justin's head.

"I'm touching you," he whispered into the young man's ear. "Until I can see you next Tuesday, I'll _keep_ touching you."

He felt the slight tightening of Justin's arms around him, heard the soft whimper as they separated. "I'd like that," Justin said. "Later."

"Later."

Brian settled himself behind the wheel of his Jeep, wiping his hand across his face, surprised at the wetness he found there. Even after all these months, all the tears he had secretly and not so secretly cried, he was still surprised when he did. He'd learned at the hand of the master that men don't cry.

He was fucking stoic.

He didn't fucking do emotion.

Until Justin… the strongest man he knew… had changed all that shit. A nineteen year old kid being forced to handle all the shit life piled on him? Yeah, Brian could fucking cry about it!

As his shoulders started to shake, he laid his head on the steering wheel and gave himself one minute to give into it all. Then he turned the key in the ignition, looked back over his shoulder at the hatefully imposing structure, and started the hour and a half back to the Pitts.

_TCTCTCTC_

He didn't really intend for this to turn out to be such a complicated affair. There was way too much food, way too many decorations and Brian was going to be way too pissed when he saw it all. Emmett had tried – he really had – to keep it sedate. It was just family. But, Lord, Vic was turning _forty-eight_! Almost a half century of glorious gaydom! And _that_ should be celebrated. Honeycutt style.

Brian had given Emmett a key to the loft, as well as the security code, so that he would be able to set up the birthday party for Vic. Of course, Mr. I've-Got-a-Secret had to snidely warn Emmett not to get too attached to coming and going. He would make sure to change the security code as soon as the party was finished, thank you very much! Emmett smirked to himself at that. Brian could pretend to be such a bitch at times.

"Well, since I've gone this far, I may as well do it up right," Emmett whispered to himself. "Just a few more streamers there, and this beautiful flower arrangement right… here!" But as Emmett set the vase of spring flowers on the liquor cart next to Brian's desk, he bumped a file folder, sending papers skittering to the hardwood floor.

"Oh, lord. Brian will be _so_ pissed! _Really_ pissed," he chastised himself as he hurriedly gathered up the scattered papers, placing them carefully back into the manila folder. One thing he had been _specifically_ warned against was bothering _anything_ on Brian's desk. You don't mess with Brian's work files.

Rather than placing the file back on the desk, where he knew it would just be at risk again during the party, he pulled out one of the file drawers next to the desk and placed it on the hanging rack. As he started to close the drawer he noticed a file tab with two words written on it – _Justin/Daphne_.

_Justin. His name is Justin._

The words were as clear as the day Brian had spoken them in his office weeks ago. This file was about the boy in prison.

Emmett Honeycutt was not normally a nosey person. Honestly. Well, not much, anyway. But he _had_ already followed Brian to the prison, and they _had_ already talked about the boy to some degree. So… his curiosity got the better of him and he pulled out the file.

His eyes widened in disbelief as he looked through the file.

A paid off mortgage document stapled to a… cash bail receipt in the amount of…. "Oh, my lord"…

Receipts for attorney's fees notated for 'Taylor defense'.

Hospital receipts and detailed bills for a Daphne Chanders – pregnancy? Surgery?

Letters from an adoption attorney.

The photographs he had seen in Brian's office – the '_friend's'_ child.

Oh, god.

As Emmett's jaw opened even further he muttered a simple "fuck me." He had naïvely thought Brian was merely _visiting_ the kid. A friendly gesture taking on a life of its own, so to speak. But this… _this_ was _much_, _much_ more than that. Brian had spent thousands on attorneys, thousands more on medical expenses. Mortgaged his home! He was… _taking care_ of these two. Supporting them to a large degree.

Emmett's question was, as he replaced the file in the drawer – why?

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Nine months earlier**_:

It hadn't really gone well. At all.

"He's never going to forgive me, is he?"

Brian's eyes never left the road. He didn't need to see the girl sitting next to him to know that she was trying to crawl inside herself. To see that she had shredded the damp tissue in her hands. To see how swollen her eyes had become.

It was all there in the frightened, small voice, punctuated by one huge question mark.

"Give him some time, Princess. That was a fucking big shock we gave him. Let him process it."

The words sounded right. Give him time. Justin had every right to be angry, to feel… betrayed. Again. To need time. But in his gut, Brian wasn't at all sure Justin _would_ forgive them. Either of them.

And he wasn't at all sure either of them would make it if he didn't.

"I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing," the small, shallow voice whispered. "God, Brian! I should never, _never_ have kept it a secret."

"Probably not. But you did what you thought was best. For _him_."

Gravel crunched beneath the wide Jeep tires as the vehicle pulled into the parking lot of the rest stop. Brian unbuckled the seat belt and walked around, opening the passenger door. "C'mon." Holding the young woman's face in both hands, he kissed her forehead. The rich brown eyes glistened at they stared past him at nothing in particular. She'd been so strong, so solid through everything. She'd cried, she'd railed, she'd screamed – but never once had she given up. Not on Justin or the pregnancy or… Brian himself. It was so simple to see why Justin cared so much for her. God, why _he himself_ had come to care so much for her.

"You need to wash your face, and I need a smoke."

Daphne nodded her head. She'd heard the request he didn't make, the admission his stubborn pride and his own fear wouldn't let him voice.

_I need a minute to compose myself_.

He was sitting on a concrete picnic table top smoking what was probably his third cigarette when she returned from the restroom.

"You do know you're supposed to undress before you take a shower, right?" He nodded his head to the water spots on the front of her blue blouse.

"They always make it look so pristine, so _not messy_ in the movies. But it's not that easy to splash water on your face from a bathroom sink and keep it off your clothes."

Brian took a long drag on the cigarette before putting it out on the dirty picnic table top. "They make a lot of things look easy in the movies. Fall off a ten story building and walk away. Dodge bullets with the power of your mind. Wash your face neatly in a bathroom." He gave her a quick smirk. "And then they all go off and live happily ever after."

Daphne sat between Brian's legs on the bench, her head leaning back against him. "He thinks I betrayed him."

"Betrayal implies that you meant to hurt him. He's smart enough to know that's not the case."

"I would have told him. Before she was born. But…" She leaned her head into one of Brian's long legs, needing the touch. "I just…The trial. His parents. Prison looming over him. The last thing he needed was worrying about me being pregnant. With _his_ baby… Christ, I shouldn't have said anything to him!"

"Listen to me," Brian pulled Daphne's face around to make sure she focused on him. "You are still healing. He had no idea why you weren't there, hadn't been to see him since he got there. He didn't know you had surgery, much less a baby. You _had_ to tell him, Princess. Of course he's hurt. But he _will_ forgive you."

Brian recalled the devastation on Justin's face. The whispered incredulity –

_And you didn't think I'd want to know about my own child?_

He recalled his back as he walked out on their visitation.

Brian had wanted to wrap him up in his arms, to comfort him, to shake him, to demand that he see just what this young woman had sacrificed for him – what they would both continue to sacrifice for him.

And then he hoped for Daphne's sake that forgiveness was possible.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Tuesday, March 26, 2002**_:

"Michael! Hey everybody, Michael's here!"

Debbie's unexpected excitement cut through the celebration in the room, and everyone turned toward the open loft door.

"So, the prodigal son returns from the primordial forest." Brian walked toward his old friend and embraced him. "Hey, Mikey."

"Hey, Brian. I've missed you, asshole."

"I've missed you, too. Where's the good doctor?" Brian noticed the slight grin at the question. Ah, so no ripples yet in the Sea of Domestic Tranquility.

"Still in Portland," Michael said simply, as if the few words explained it all. Not so long ago, that would probably have been the case. They would have understood each other, and Brian felt a pang of guilt at how far apart they had drifted.

"Baby! Let me look at you!" Debbie pulled her son into a tight hug before thrusting him back. "You are nothing but skin and bones, Michael Charles Novotny. When's the last time you ate a decent meal?"

"Good to see you too, ma," he laughed and walked away to greet Emmett and Ted.

The birthday party for Vic had also served as a reunion, of sorts, with Michael. But Brian had felt that distance between them that had nothing to do with geography. This last six months had let them drift apart. They had hugged and said all the right words, but something was sadly missing.

"Everything okay, Brian?" Vic had seen the brief interaction of the two friends – much too brief if their history counted for anything.

"Never better, Vic. Happy birthday." Brian handed a glass to his friend. "Just Emmett's punch, Vic. Nothing doctored."

"In that case, Brian… thank you for the drink, and damn you for remembering my birthday."

"Yeah, well, no fag likes to admit to getting older, but, alas, Emmett wasn't going to forget. So, it was either a party here, in the bosom of your loving family or celebrating with every queer in the Pitts at Woody's." Brian took a drink from his own glass, grimacing only slightly at the familiar burn. He had opted for something a bit stronger than Emmett's party punch. "Just think of this as the lesser of two evils."

Vic chuckled and held up his glass toward Brian. "To lesser evils."

"To lesser evils," Brian repeated and downed the remainder of his bourbon.

"Have to say I'm surprised to see you tonight." There was no guile in Vic's statement. He had long ago recognized Brian for the complicated, enigmatic man he was and had no doubt that whatever occupied him on this particular day every week was significant.

"Because it's a birthday party? Or because it's Tuesday?" Brian made no attempt to act indifferent. He certainly knew that his disappearing act one day a week was hashed and rehashed by their little family. Vic, though, was the kind of man who normally stayed as far away from family 'politics' as possible.

"Both, I guess," Vic stated honestly and instantly saw a hesitation in the younger man's eyes. "Brian, what you do in your life is your business, no one else's. I know whatever it is must be important to you. That's all. If you want to share, we're here."

Brian stared into his empty glass, as if he'd find some proper response there. He respected the quiet, wise man he'd known so long, the man who'd been almost like a father to him. As he looked up from the silent glass and into the eyes of his friend, he found only acceptance and respect. He simply nodded.

He thought about the distance that had grown between Michael and himself, a distance that could only partially be explained by Michael's move to Portland. Brian realized that the feeling included the other members of his family as well. Even without the dreaded introspection, Brian knew he had been the one who closed down, who had pulled away.

Vic was right to be surprised at Brian's presence tonight.

Maybe Vic was right that it was time to share, as well.


	7. Chapter 7: The hour of magical thinking

CHAPTER 7: The hour of magical thinking

_**Friday, March 29, 2002 **_

The cold of the concrete dug harshly into his left cheek. He could feel every pit, every fissure in the distressed blocks; could almost feel the gritty powder of the cement that held them together. It was rough. Cool. Let him focus on something other than the pain engulfing him from the arm hanging awkwardly at his left side. Justin was pretty sure the arm was dislocated.

Just a shove. That's all it was really – a shove.

Fucking dick.

He could see the photos scattered in front of him – intense splashes of copper and sapphire and cadmium shining up from the dirty ground – and he thoughtlessly moved to pick them up.

"Fuck!" The cry was wrenched from him as he slid down the wall, fighting back tears threatening at the sheer intensity of the pain.

_Fuck fuck fuck_! _Can't cry here, Taylor_! _Breathe… Just fucking breathe_.

As he sucked in great gulps of air, he struggled desperately to hold off the cries he knew would paint a bulls-eye on him for every hardass wannabe in the yard watching him; that would paint him as vulnerable to those who needed or wanted a target for their aggression. One of the first lessons you learned here – don't show a soft underbelly. Don't let them make you roll over. Don't let them see weakness.

And he mentally kicked his own ass for being such a stupid, daydreaming little fuck.

He always had the pictures with him. A couple of them, anyway. It brought him some peace, some small measure of… happiness… to look at them when he had a moment to do so. The hour in the yard every morning, outside the physical walls of the building, where he could actually feel the sun and the breeze on his skin… The hour outside when he could almost – almost – forget the guards and the gates and the strings of barbed wire. The hour he could almost – almost – pretend he was there waiting for them in a park or a backyard or a school lot. The hour he could almost – almost – believe that if he just pretended hard enough it would be true.

This one fucking hour of magical thinking.

He was a dad. Had a family. Had Bryn and Brian and Daphne coming to meet him, laughingly arm in arm… just around that corner of the building. They would take Bryn to the zoo or the museum. He would push her in a swing at the park, watch the coppery curls tickling around her tiny, smiling face. Brian would hold his hand as they walked – fucking _touch_ him – and he would feel the sweet weight of Bryn's small body resting against him as he carried her.

Free… for that one magical hour he was free – waiting for them. Just around that corner.

But today Haas had been around that corner while Justin was in his magical thinking dream. Haas and his perpetually pissed-off attitude.

"Fuck outta my way, Taylor." Justin had flashes of hallway encounters with the jocks at St. James and huffed out a laugh at the improbability of jocks _ever_ growing the hell up. As soon as the sound left his body he knew it was a mistake. This wasn't high school. This was fucking _prison_. You don't laugh back at the jocks here.

"Something fucking funny, Taylor?"

"Nope. Just standing here, Haas." Cool. Don't show your underbelly. But he knew he was in the middle of a Catch 22. No matter what he did now, Justin knew he would end up hurt. Didn't matter than he had just been standing there, minding his own business. Didn't matter that Haas had a whole fucking prison yard he could walk in. Haas wanted this one particular spot and Justin was in it. Simply _because_ Justin was in it. If Justin gave in now he would be rolling over for Haas the rest of his time here. _Catch_. If he didn't Haas would see it as some kind of challenge. _22_.

As the men stood facing off, Justin could see Haas fists clenching and unclenching and he prepared himself for the inevitable. He could feel the bile begin to churn, feel his heart rate shoot up dramatically. Haas was one of the volatile ones. Always on some edge. He was in for assault, too, but Justin was under no illusion the man was innocent. He actually bragged about nearly beating his own brother to death because he'd pissed him off. Christ!

A scuffle back in the yard seemed to pull the large man's attention. They both noticed the guards walking closer to their corner, intent on keeping the small altercation behind them from becoming a yard fight, and Justin could see Haas considering his options. He knew the moment the big man realized he wouldn't be beating the shit out of Justin today. The guards had come too close.

"You fucking laugh at me again, bitch," Haas hissed a moment later, leaning in nose to nose with Justin, "and I'll mark every inch of your pathetic little ass." As he moved to walk away he grabbed the front of Justin's brown shirt. Then he shoved him. Hard. The only sound Justin made as his shoulder impacted the pipe running down the side of the building was the whoosh of air leaving his body.

And now, here he was, slunk down on the paved yard, back pressed tightly against the brick. Staring helplessly at the prized photos scattered only inches in front of him.

"Taylor?"

The vaguely familiar voice slowly penetrated the thick fog of pain and frustration Justin had been biting back. He was surprised to hear the note of concern. He didn't get much of that sound around here.

"Let's get you to the infirmary, kid." Strong hands lifted him from the ground as his face screwed up in a tight grimace and he fought to keep his head from falling forward. That move hurt too fucking much.

"Shoulder…" he gritted out.

"Yeah, I guessed. Let's hope the fuckers up there know what they're doing today." Charles Whitefall knew the score, and it wasn't in the kid's favor. The medical treatment here was piss poor, doctors were invisible and the practitioners available were substandard. Who the fuck cared about treating inmates? He knew full well they wouldn't send him off to county for x-rays, no matter how much he might need them.

"Fuck. Fuck!"

"Hang on, Taylor."

"Photos," Justin said, drawing in a deep breath. "Get my daughter's photos."

The words stunned Whitefall. This kid had a kid? Jesus damn, he was just a _boy_ and the guard was fairly sure the kid was gay.

"I'll make sure Carter gets 'em. C'mon, son."

An hour later, as he sat on break outside the infirmary where the kid was still waiting to be seen by any kind of medical provider, Charles Whitefall looked at the beautiful little girl smiling up at him from the photo in his hand and made a decision. He would _not_ fucking let them do this to another boy. Not fucking again.

Even if it cost him his damned job.

_TCTCTCTC_

Brian sat staring blankly at the phone in his hand. It had been a full two minutes since the call ended and he still hadn't fully processed what the guard had told him. Justin was hurt. The medical treatment at Mercer was for shit. Get there and do something.

"Brian, Marty wants to see you."

The sound of Cynthia's voice through the intercom shocked Brian out of his deep freeze. Shit. He didn't have time for Ryder right now.

"Cynthia, tell Marty I can't see him. Cancel everything I have this afternoon. I have to leave."

"Brian? What the hell are you doing? And exactly what do you want me to use as an excuse with Marty?" The woman was used to Brian's idiosyncrasies, but you don't blow off the boss, for chrissake.

"Tell him I'm sick. Tell him my fucking mother died. Tell him my goddamned wife's in fucking labor! I don't give a shit. Just do it."

"Okay, boss." Shit. She knew Brian well enough to know arguing with him when he was like this was futile. _I hope to hell he knows what he's doing_, she thought.

Before his assistant even had the time to disconnect the intercom, Brian had dialed a now familiar number on his cell.

"George Pappas."

"George, Brian Kinney."

"Brian. If you're calling about the appeal, I don't have an…" Brian's anxious voice interrupted the attorney's words.

"Justin's been hurt."

"What the hell happened?" George was instantly on alert. Christ, the kid had been through enough already!

"Don't have details yet. His shoulder. Apparently they don't want to send him to the hospital, but they don't have the fucking facilities..." Brian's hand had been tapping the top of his desk and the attorney could suddenly hear it slam down even on the other end of the phone. "Fuck!"

"Yeah. They only have an infirmary. Basic shit. I know… How did you find out?"

"One of the guards called me." Brian, phone cradled between shoulder and chin, pulled on his suit jacket as he hurried toward Cynthia's desk. "George, listen… the guard said I should get to Mercer _now_. I think you need…"

"I actually have a meeting scheduled with him today. I'm already on my way. You… go."

As Brian closed the phone, holding it tightly in his clenched hand, he looked into the questioning face of his assistant. He knew she'd heard the end of his conversation and knew she'd worry the shit out of him for some kind of explanation. She was the one who would have to face a very pissed off Marty Ryder. He would owe her at least something. But not now.

"Don't call me unless the wife has twins, Cynthia."

"Got it, Boss." She gave him that cocked-head, wide-eyed stare he had come to interpret as 'we'll talk later,' and he nodded slightly.

Getting on the elevator, he punched the button for the parking garage and leaned back against the reflective walls, watching the crisp reflection in the polished surface across from him. Everything he had worked toward in his life stared back at him. The perfect image. The man who had everything – career success, money, looks, men. And a whole load of bullshit rules created to maintain that image. He had gotten it all – raised himself up out of the for shit life he grew up in. He could have anyone he wanted – and he had. A couple of them right here in this fucking mirrored box. And right now it meant nothing. Absolutely. Nothing. Not the success, the men, the rules…

Brian closed his eyes against the hollow feeling his own image created inside. Yeah, he had done it all. No apologies. No regrets.

No substance.

Until…

A wave of emotion rolled over Brian at the thought of Justin hurt in that fucking institution. And he realized that, as scary — as fucking _paralyzing_ as it was to think of the man injured there, just the mental image of him filled Brian up – filled in the hollow shell that had reflected back at him just a moment before. There was more substance in his life on that one day than the rest of the week combined. Tuesday _lived_. The rest of his life merely existed.

He loved his son. God, he loved that little boy and the depth of his feelings for him had come as a total surprise. He had come to love Daphne in a way he had never loved Lindsey, or any other woman. She had become truly his sister, truly his confidant. Unconditionally and reciprocally.

As much as Brian had depended upon and loved Mikey and Lindsey and Debbie… none of those relationships had been unconditional. For any of them. And now… that just wasn't enough anymore.

Because of Justin. There were no expectations there. Given the circumstances there just couldn't be. This relationship – and yeah, it _was_ a relationship – was on a totally different level. A level Brian had never before experienced. A man he couldn't touch, couldn't hold, couldn't… fuck… filled him. Took away the emptiness, but engendered an entirely alien sense of longing.

He was in love with Justin. And he wasn't going to hide it anymore.

Brian turned the ignition in his Jeep and pulled out onto the highway toward Mercer. Justin needed him.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Eleven months earlier**_:

"You _will_ finish high school, Justin. You _will_ go to art school."

Brian sat on the hard bench next to the beautiful young man, mindlessly staring at the ducks paddling in seemingly erratic circles on the water.

Justin huffed out a sardonic little laugh. "That is so unlikely, Brian, it rises to the level of the impossible. If I'm convicted, no reputable school would even consider me after prison. And, even if I _am_ acquitted, I can't go back to high school after this." He broke off a small piece of bread and tossed it aimlessly toward the river. "I'm just so fucking screwed."

Brian wrapped his arm around the heartsick young man. He could feel the tremors in the slight body, and knew it had nothing to do with the chill still hovering in the April air. Brian pulled Justin closer and wished more than anything that he could tell him everything would be fine. That life would be back to normal after the trial. But Brian wouldn't lie. Normal wouldn't come again for any of them. Especially Justin.

"That guy over there," Brian said, pointing to a stylishly dressed man talking on a cell phone. "Tell me about him."

"Brian…"

"Go on. Tell me." It was a game they had played before to distract themselves and pass the time. And right now, Justin needed the distraction.

The young man nudged Brian's shoulder with his own and sighed. "Sure," he finally said. "Stock broker. Eats alone every day because he has no friends. He's too obsessed with amassing a fortune. For himself. He doesn't care about the investors. Loves insider trading and Oprah. Lives in an apartment on the floor below the penthouse in the Regency Building since he can't quite afford the cost of the penthouse. Yet. His guilty pleasures are listening to re-mastered recordings of Meneudo and dancing salsa naked in his kitchen."

"You're getting good at this," Brian praised. "But… you're wrong. He's a plumber."

"Plumber? Really, Brian. Dressed like that?" Justin giggled quietly. Brian smiled at the beautiful sound.

"Yes, a plumber. Do you have any idea how much they make?" He glared at the boy in mock astonishment. "But, alas," Brian sighed, "the poor man is having a bit of a plumbing crisis himself. Right now, he's calling yet another plumber to check out his faulty ballcock and blocked overflow tube."

Justin laughed – really laughed – and Brian realized he hadn't heard that sound in days.

At least for a moment Justin was happy.

"God, Brian. You're incredible."

"It's true. I am," he replied, tongue in cheek.

Justin reached up and kissed the older man gently. "Thank you, Brian. For being here."

"Always, Justin. Always."

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Friday, March 29, 2002**_:

Justin lay on the cot in the prison infirmary, his breath coming in short, labored pants and a cold numbness creeping slowly up his arm. He cradled the still aching arm closely to his body and tried to remember what the hell had happened to him. He had been looking at Bryn. Her picture. All copper curls and blue eyed wonder. God, she was beautiful. _He_ had done that. Somewhere inside himself he smiled. It didn't reach his lips.

George Whitefall stood anxiously looking through the small wired window of the infirmary door. He could tell instantly that something was very wrong as he watched the boy's body slowly start to jerk and his head tilt to the side. Fuck!

Fuck!

Three minutes later, Brian Kinney stood in the lobby near the administration desk of Mercer prison, George Pappas at his side. They had been battling with the desk clerk for over five minutes about the legality of withholding an inmate from a scheduled meeting with his attorney.

Brian felt the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. Flipping the phone open he read the text message from Cynthia:

_911, Brian. I think we have twins. Charles Whitefall? Call this number immediately. 555-5252. _

_Oh, fuck_, he thought as he dialed.

George watched his friend walk to the far corner of the lobby, his phone to his ear and the color slowly draining from his face.

"Shit!" Brian exclaimed. "George, he's in serious trouble. Justin."

George Pappas didn't take time asking for clarification. He turned back to the generic looking man behind the administration desk and spoke with quiet, firm authority.

"Justin Taylor is my client. I am his attorney. I have a scheduled, approved meeting with my client right now. And I don't give a shit _where_ Mr. Taylor is at the moment or whether _you_ think it is the right time for me to see him. Unless his section is on lockdown, you will either produce him _immediately_ for me to talk with, or you will take me to him. _Immediately_. Do. You. Understand?" The threat in Pappas' voice was suddenly unmistakable. There was no more room for question.

"Mr. Taylor is currently in the infirmary, Mr. Pappas. You may follow me, but I'm afraid Mr. Kinney is not on the attorney list. He will need to remain here." There was absolutely no concern or disdain in the man's voice. It was completely void of emotion.

Brian nodded his understanding. He just fucking wanted something done. "I'll be here, George. Let me know if…"

George nodded in acknowledgement as he followed the clerk through the reinforced door. And Brian waited for what seemed an eternity.

**NOTE:** Although at times allowed, it is not common practice for attorneys to be taken to the infirmary to see inmates. For the purposes of this story, I ignore that fact completely.


	8. Chapter 8: Heartbeats

Chapter 8: Heartbeats

_**Friday, March 29, 2002**_

"He's being sent to the hospital in Transport."

For a moment Brian didn't register the words. They had been spoken gently, had been punctuated with a calming hand on Brian's shoulder, but they seemed so much gibberish at the moment.

"What?"

"He's being sent to the hospital in Transport. We need to go. Meet them there." George gave a little squeeze to Brian's shoulder and Brian nodded his acknowledgement.

"How is he?" Brian's question whispered out and George shook his head.

"He… he's stabilized. Apparently there was an allergic reaction to the pain injection." The attorney saw the pained look on his friend's face and stopped any further explanation. It would be best to wait until they reached the hospital to tell him about the seizure and the respiratory distress. Maybe there would be more information by then.

"Jesus Christ! Surely they have his medical records! He's allergic to fucking everything!" Brian vividly recalled every moment of the night he had met Justin, and the boy's edgy prattling about allergies to codeine and Tylenol and a multitude of other drugs. He had thought Justin's nervous ramblings almost charming at the time, despite his own drug induced state. And now… someone's fuck up was sending the beautiful young man to the hospital. God…

"So. How do we get to Transport?"

_TCTCTCTC_

He knew he was supposed to be doing… something. It seemed important – it nagged at him to be remembered. But he had no idea of the particulars.

"He's coding!"

He was simply color and touch and, God, the feelings were so intense! Every impossible hue and tint and shade of sensation caressed him – subtle fingers of nuance he had never before felt. There was only white and every imagined and unimagined color it contained.

"Clear!"

Buzz. Harsh click. Jolt.

He could feel soft whispers of quiet and calm and peace caress his face. He could taste sounds and colors around him. The sweet cinnamon hint of laughter and the crisp apple of hazel. He floated on this synesthetic cloud.

But he couldn't grasp the particulars… he needed… _something_.

"Again!"

Buzz. Harsh click. Jolt.

"Jesus. Thank god. He's with us, people."

There it was. He felt the colors dim as he remembered what he was supposed to do.

Breathe… Breathe…

_TCTCTCTC_

Brian and George slumped onto the sectioned seats of the waiting room couch, both watching the wide automated door they knew led to the hospital ER. They still knew nothing. Not a word since arriving. Brian could feel his heart jump at irregular intervals, like it was trying to decide whether to race or stop beating altogether.

He knew Daphne would be working through the night, but he had left a message – it had been nearly an hour since he had called her. Nearly four hours since he had left Ryder. Nearly six hours, according to Whitefall's timeline, since Justin's still unknown injury. No one would tell them a goddamned thing yet.

"Who's here for Mr. Taylor?"

Both men had stood at the sound of the ER door opening and now looked over at the scrub-clad man addressing them.

"We are. I'm Mr. Taylor's attorney and proxy. This is Mr. Kinney, my associate." The lie slid easily off George's tongue, and he wasn't even sure why he had said it. It just felt…necessary. Just in case.

"Right." He sighed as he sized up the men warily. It was a touchy legal situation dealing with inmates and their privacy issues. "I'm Dr. Patel. We have Mr. Taylor stabilized at the moment. Apparently your client suffered an injury to his shoulder, which we still have to address. His reaction to the pain medication he was given was, in all honesty, the emergent issue. He went into anaphylaxis, and although I understand he was given _epinephrine, a delay in delivery _resulted in some respiratory distress and seizure. While evaluating and treating Mr. Taylor, he suffered what is known as sudden cardiac arrest – his heart suddenly stopped beating." Dr. Patel paused, allowing the information to process. The pallor that overtook the taller man upon hearing this news was unmistakable.

Brian stood for a moment, stunned, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide. Jesus fucking Christ. This can't fucking be happening. Not to him. Not to _him_.

"Will he be okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"As I said, he has been stabilized, although he is unconscious at the moment. That's to be expected. His body has taken quite a beating within the past few hours. He should make a full recovery…" There was an audible sigh of relief from both men at that statement. "…however we still need to address the issue with his shoulder. Based upon the reports of the incident and our physical examination – I don't have x-rays at this point – it appears to be an injury to the acromioclavicular joint. A separated shoulder."

"Let me see if I understand this, Dr. Patel." George Pappas was stunned at what he was hearing. "Mr. Taylor most likely suffered a somewhat common injury to his shoulder and nearly died because someone gave him the _wrong medication_?"

"He was given the wrong medication for _him_."

"Those fucking incompetent imbeciles. They have his records!"

"How long will he be here, Dr. Patel?" Brian's stomach was churning. Worry and fear for Justin, as well as a heavy dose of guilt for Justin being in prison at all were weighing there like acid. _Please, please don't send him back there yet_, he silently begged. _Please_.

"Mr. Taylor is dealing with several issues, Mr. Kinney. We still need to stabilize the shoulder injury. As well, based on the severity of his allergic reaction and the circumstances surrounding his medical treatment options upon release, I am concerned about the possibility of biphasic anaphylaxis, or a spontaneous recurrence of the anaphylactic reaction. For that alone, I would recommend we keep him under observation up to 72 hours."

Brian nearly collapsed with relief. At least 72 hours. Any relief he was feeling, however, was cut short by the doctor's next words.

"Then there is the matter of the cardiac arrest and exactly what damage, if any, may have occurred due to the loss of circulation and respiration. Since treatment was provided within a matter of a minute or two, I am optimistic that he suffered no permanent damage. In fact, given his young age and general well being, with the exception of his arm, he should be feeling fairly well by tomorrow. Still, at the very least, Mr. Taylor will be with us for at least a week."

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Thirteen months earlier**_:

"We all live in a Yellow Submarine…"

"NO! NO! NO! Not _again_, Justin!"

"Now, now, children. Behave, or daddy will have to separate you two again."

"Or… Daddy could just… _spank_ me."

"Brian, _please_… _please_ don't encourage him!"

"Ahhh, what a life. One wants a spanking and one is begging," Brian smiled lecherously at his two young friends. "It's good to be the master."

"Master this, you freak."

Brian felt the soft ping of popcorn kernels hit his chest and he glared at Justin's innocent little smile. "Watch the fucking shirt, twat. There's butter on that shit."

"It's my turn to choose the movie, boys. I choose _Chocolat_." Brian and Justin both groaned.

"Christ, Daph, even you aren't that much of a female," Justin whined, tossing a pillow and missing the girl by a good foot.

"Oh, suck it up, Jus. I simply refuse to watch some animated little blue dudes or another _anything_ having to do with Brando _again_. Besides, you know you both want to see Johnny Depp's hot chest as much as I do." Daphne smirked and clicked the remote control.

Justin sat between Brian and Daphne on the floor, their back against the chaise. "Um… she does have a point there, kid," Brian whispered into Justin's ear. He winked and pulled a joint from the box on the table beside them.

"Mr. Depp just became _even_ hotter," Justin whispered back with a wide grin.

The joint was passed, and then another, until Brian was high enough to admit he actually _liked_ the movie. Still, Brian and Justin couldn't hold back the giggles and rolled eyes at the small – and not so small – sighs Daphne would let out at strategic points in the film. Brian played thumb war with Justin, losing on a regular basis when he became mesmerized with the shifting layers of wheat and fresh honey of the boys hair. At some point he stirred, feeling the weight of Daphne's head against his left shoulder and Justin's in his lap, and realized they had all fallen asleep. He rested his head against the leather of the chaise, his lids heavy from sleep and weed, and smiled at the warmth of his fingers still curled with Justin's from their games.

Brian wondered, amazed, at the ease he felt in the presence of these two. He had fallen asleep with Mikey, and others, hundreds of times. Had spent evenings fucking and smoking and drinking, and thought that he was happy. But in just a few months these two kids – no, they surely weren't kids anymore – this man and this woman had become his closest friends, his secret family. He could fucking _giggle_ with them and enjoy _Chocolat_. He didn't have to _be_ anyone.

He brushed the hair away from the beautiful face resting in his lap. Justin was so fucking beautiful. And so fucking strong. Brian let his finger lightly trace the young man's proud, full lips and feel the moist heat from his sleepy breath, and groaned, remembering the taste of those lips, of that breath. God, he was hard! He was always so fucking hard when he was near the kid. But he wouldn't fuck him. Not now. Not again. The Kinney dick had caused enough shit in this young man's life.

"I wish I could take it all for you, Justin. That's all I want. Keep you safe." But he knew he couldn't. And the heart so few believed he had, broke just a little more.

_TCTCTCTC_

_**Saturday, March 30, 2002:**_

Justin woke up at some point during the night but they wouldn't let anyone see him. They had put him on the cardiac floor of the hospital and, because he was an inmate they had guards posted at the door. And his right wrist handcuffed to the bed. Justin had to laugh at that. His left arm was firmly taped to his body, to immobilize it, he assumed. So there he was, unable to scratch his nose, his balls or even ring for the night nurse if he needed anything. Christ.

_Well_, he thought, _at least I'm not wearing brown_.

Cardiac arrest. Shit. He was nineteen years old, for chrissakes, and his fucking heart stops. Dr. Patel had tried to explain to him what had happened, and tried to get him to explain how he injured his shoulder. But Justin knew better than to spill that can out. After all was said and done, staying alive when he got back to Mercer trumped getting revenge on a shit like Haas. He just hoped he wouldn't be handicapped with a bad arm for too long when he returned. From the throb going through it right now, he wasn't too optimistic about that.

"Guard," he called weakly, his throat strained from the intubation he'd had in the ambulance.

Shit.

"Guard!" he called, a bit more strongly.

"You need something, Taylor?"

"Yeah, thanks. Could you call the nurse for me?" He wondered briefly if he should add a 'please' to that request.

"Mr. Taylor, what can I get for you?" The middle aged nurse looked a bit tired, but seemed to be cheerful, at least.

"I need to use the bathroom."

"I know they don't want you on a treadmill, but you're not on bed restriction. Are you sure you need my help?" She seemed puzzled by Justin's request until he jiggled his arm, showing the handcuff she had been unaware of.

"Shit! What a bunch of pricks. You're a goddamned kid with one arm taped to your chest, whose heart stopped, being guarded by a man with a gun. What the hell do they think you're going to do? Whine us to death?"

Justin stared at the woman with a look of complete shock on his face, then broke out his smile. He was going to like this woman.

"Haven't you heard? I'm public enemy number one."

"The only thing you are is wet behind the ears, kid," she said as she made her way back toward the guard.

"Get this cuff off this boy, now. This is a cardiac unit and it is absolutely necessary that he be able to have that arm mobile. Am I understood?" The slim, motherly woman stood directly in front of the imposing guard, hands on hips. "Now!"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I can't. Procedure."

"This is _MY_ floor. This is _MY_ patient. And we will follow _MY_ procedures. Are we clear on that, _sir_?"

The guard sheepishly nodded and removed the handcuff before returning to his post at the door. Justin had been watching the exchange, awed. He looked at the lively woman's name tag – Rose.

"Rose, thank you for that," he said, rubbing his chaffed wrist. Rose nodded. "But tell me, were you, like, in the army?"

She winked as she watched him walk toward the bathroom door. "Now, whatever tipped you off to that, young man? Oh, by the way, visiting hours start in half an hour. You have some attorneys here to see you. Should I make sure they get in?"

_Attorneys_, Justin thought. _More than one_? "Uh, sure. Thank you."

Nearly thirty minutes later Justin recognized Rose's voice outside his hospital room.

"Now, we've been through this before, _Mr. Santos_. _MY_ hospital, _MY_ floor, _MY_ procedures. Now, you can make sure that boy doesn't run off and you can pat down these men before they go in. But they are his attorneys and, believe me, they _will_ go in. And they _will_ have privacy. Am I understood, _Mr. Santos_?"

Justin smiled and wondered if the woman had been a freaking drill sergeant.

As he worried his pillows into a more comfortable position for sitting, Justin heard the snick of the door latch as it closed.

"Justin…"

He froze, his heart thumping. He turned around, the smile he so desperately wanted on his face just wouldn't stay. It crumpled as the tears behind his eyes began running down his face and his sobs started. The tension and fear of the last eleven months came pouring out with one broken word.

"Brian."

George Pappas stood with his back to the door watching the men before him. He felt like some perverted voyeur, never mind the many hours he had spent in the backroom of Babylon and other clubs. He could watch other men fuck in public and feel nothing but excitement from it. But watching the loving touches, the embrace of the two men here was different. It was private, almost sacred. He walked over and pulled the privacy curtain around the bed before resuming his place at the door.

Justin sat on the side of his bed simply staring at the vision before him. "How?"

"Shhh…" Brian's hands reached up to cup the beautiful face he had wanted so desperately to touch for months. His eyes poured over every inch of the man. His voice cracked with emotion as he whispered, "I love you so fucking much, Justin."

"God, Brian…"

Lips met lips hungrily, dangerously…passionately. Justin's hand grabbed auburn hair as Brian's found their way beneath the harsh cloth of the hospital gown. Justin buried his face in Brian's shirt, inhaling the man, sobbing his relief. His mantra sounded through the tears…

"I love you. I love you."


End file.
